Finding the Boy
by FeistyFeist
Summary: A Missing Persons report filed. Questions asked. If only they could get some answers.
1. Chapter 1

Alas! Inspiration has struck again. (I hope).

XXXXX

Tulsa Police Department

Missing Persons Report for:

PONYBOY MICHAEL CURTIS

Last seen: August 23, 1967

Ponyboy Michael Curtis, 15 years old, of Caucasian descent, was last seen at Will Rogers High School at approximately 4:30 pm. Ponyboy had recently completed track practice and was seen leaving the school grounds. Fellow students reported no unusual activity in the area.

Ponyboy had planned on meeting his brother Sodapop, 18, at Soda's place of employment, the DX, at approximately 5:00 pm that same day. Ponyboy never showed and later that evening at 10:05 pm, his oldest brother Darrel Curtis called the police department.

On August 24, Officer Benjamin Miller found Ponyboy's backpack and jacket in the woods near Lake Elmo. After further search of the surrounding woods, a sign of a struggle has been noted See Appendix A for details. Darrel Curtis stated that the jacket is not his brother's.

Detective William Jessup

XXXXX

_August 24, 1967_

_1:30 am_

I know when I'm in trouble and I know when I'm in deep shit. And as Two-Bit would say: I'm royally screwed.

Having just come to a few hours ago, even I know that things are not as they should be.

Currently, the two guys in front of me are arguing if I should be gagged and bound or just bound and I hate to break it to them but either way I'm not too comfortable.

My arms are splayed out behind me, the wrists tied together with a sharp twine. The chair that I'm tied to is perched in a corner of a dank room. I squint but find it hard to focus.

A freckle-faced kid leans over to the blonde guy next to him. "Alls I'm saying is that he could holler, cause commotion, get the fuzz down here."

"Nah," the blonde says. "We're too far underground. No one's gonna hear him. 'Sides he's a damn fool if he yells." His green eyes focus on me.

I shut my trap, just like Darry has taught me, instead choosing to glare at him.

"See," the blonde guy barks at his partner. "He ain't sayin' nothing. Are you boy?" He reaches out and grabs my chin, snapping me to attention.

Black spots fill my vision and the lump on the back of my head begins to throb again.

"Oh man," I groan. Yet, through my pain I think of something I'd like to say to and decide against it. The gun in the guys' right hand could do more damage than my mouth ever could.

"Yeah, but what if he does?" Freckle persists, his gray eyes darting back and forth suspiciously. He stands up and begins pacing. "What if he tries to escape?"

"He won't."

Freckle taps his foot. "But if he does…"

"Fine," Blonde sighs. "If it'll shut _you_ up. I'll shut _him_ up." The tall lanky form of Blonde stands up and exits stage right, down a dark hallway.

I wait ten seconds and then go for it. "I'm not gonna say a thing," I say in a hurried whisper to Freckle. "I just wanna go home."

"Yeah, that's what they all say." Freckle smiles maliciously, barring a mouthful of crooked teeth.

I feel my eyes widen. _Close your eyes, close your ears_, I will myself. I try hard to tune it all out, thinking of Sodapop, of Darry, of willing this disaster to disappear. But when I open my eyes, Blonde is in front of me.

"Takin' a nap?" he sneers.

"No," I reply stupidly.

"Well, I'll fix that." Squatting in front of me, Blonde reaches into a brown leather binder and draws out a syringe. He punches the needle into a vial of clear liquid and pulls back on the plunger. The syringe fills up with the unknown substance.

I try to pull back but am held fast by the chair and its ties. Then, without grace, Blonde stabs the needle into the crook of my elbow.

"Oh!" I say as the stinging sensation burns along my arm. A feeble gasp barely makes it past my lips and then my breath stills as I go limp, slumping in my chair.

Lights out.

XXXXX

_August 25, 1967_

_11:30 pm_

_I stumble in the dark. Grass wet beneath my feet, as I scour the field. The weeds are tall and blow in the nighttime breeze. _He's here_ a voice whispers inside of me. _

"_Ponyboy?" I scream throughout the night and am met with silence. _He's here, he's here, he's here…

_Then, a mere 50 feet away is a body. I don't want to, but something pulls me toward it. I can't look, but I do._

_There, in the grass is my brother. Still, silent, gone. "No." My voice resonates flatly throughout the field. But the objection is lost on the heels of the wind. "No," I say again, dropping to my knees. _

_I gather Ponyboy in my arms, his head bobbing loosely against my chest. "No."_

_And the field where he died howls in surprise._

"No!" I holler, waking myself up from the nightmare. I sit stiffly in the dark, my heart racing in my chest. "Pony?" I call out tentatively, making sure, hoping for a response.

But there is none. "God damn you," I curse the darkness.

It has really happened. I press my palms against wet eyes, trying to pull myself together.

I hear the TV going outside and know that Darry is up. I find my brother sitting at the kitchen table, pouring over the newspaper clippings of Ponyboy and maps of Lake Elmo.

"Soda, what're you doing up?" Darry frowns.

"I could ask you the same thing." I lean against the kitchen counter. "I had a nightmare," I admit.

Darry looks up sharply, his expression haunted. "Go back to bed, little buddy."

"Darry? Is he still gone?" I ask, the nightmare fresh in my mind. "Really gone?" It's stupid to ask, I know, but ever since he disappeared – more than 48 hours ago – things have been surreal.

It's worse than before too. When he left with Johnny. At least he chose to go. This time someone has taken him.

Pained, Darry doesn't meet my eyes. He stares at those damned clippings. "Yeah, Sodapop. He is."

I cover my mouth with a cupped hand, not trusting myself to speak. Then I swallow the lump in my throat. "Dar…we're gonna find him right? We have to."

"Yeah, Sodapop we are."

I'm less comforted by Darry's words than I thought I would be. Since Ponyboy has been labeled a 'Missing Person' Darry has not cracked. Instead, he has pulled himself together, cooperating with the police, pouring over the information.

I haven't been as helpful. The minute they told me blood had been found on the crime scene, I had run for the nearest bathroom, vomiting up what I had left to give.

Right now, I don't know how I'm keeping it together. But I'm a lot calmer than I was when Steve found me in that bathroom.

"It wasn't his jacket," Darry mutters suddenly. "I don't understand that. It was his backpack. But not his jacket." When he looks up at me, his eyes are bloodshot, his face drawn. "Where the hell is he?"

"Darry," I say, sick to my stomach. "I have no idea."

XXXX

Local Boy Missing

(Tulsa World)

August 26, 1967

Ponyboy Michael Curtis, grade 11 at Will Rogers High School, is still missing. Ponyboy disappeared on August 23 after a local track meet. After a thorough search of the woods around Lake Elmo, investigators are still coming up empty-handed.

Sources say the only evidence found have been Ponyboy's backpack and a small amount of blood at the scene.

However, according to head detective, William Jessup, the Tulsa Police Department is following a few leads. "We can't release much more information than that," the detective stated. "Only that we will find this boy. The investigation is far from over."

Ponyboy has two older brothers, Darrel and Sodapop Curtis, both refusing to comment on the case. His parents are deceased. Ponyboy Curtis is not stranger to publicity. Last year, Ponyboy was involved with the murder of Robert Sheldon and since acquitted of all charges. Investigators stated that this does not play a factor in their investigation. "We're looking at this as a separate incidence," Jessup said.

Classmates of Ponyboy describe him as a friendly, quiet boy who always had a nice word for everyone. Ponyboy's 10th grade English teacher, Mr. Syme said, "Ponyboy had a good head on his shoulders. He was such a polite student. I loved having him in class."

Sherri Valance, a friend of Ponyboy's said, "I never thought anything like this would happen to such a great kid."

XXXXX

Reviews?

If it's confusing at first, don't worry. It's meant to be.


	2. Chapter 2

XXXXX

So go on and tear it up

Black and cold with the dust

Cuz I believed in the lord

And he don't show up anymore

-Augustana

XXXXX

_August 22, 1967_

_9:40 pm_

_The night that Sandy comes back is the night that life explodes. Big time._

_Life started out fine and then as life usually goes, the fuse gets lit and can't be put out._

_No matter how hard you try some things never change. Exhibit A: Me and Steve._

_On the corner of King Avenue, I see Steve Randle talking to a familiar blonde girl. As I approach, I realize two things pretty quickly: That girl is Sandy, and Steve is yelling. I gather up my library books and break into a run. _

_"Steve Randle!" Sandy is screaming. "Just you butt out and mind your own business."_

"_Hey," I say quietly, edging up to Steve. _

_He does a double take and swears. "Get the hell out of here." Then he turns to Sandy. "It's my business when you want to mess with Soda, you dumb-" _

"_Sandy. Just go. Go away," I say very quietly. The animosity comes fast but controlled. I saw Soda after their break-up and I've seen him since and he's still not over it. _

_Sandy doesn't get a second chance._

_She blinks at me, her big blue eyes dazed. "You, you go to hell, you little brat."_

_I can't help it but I wince. She's not Sandy; one look at her tells me all I need to know. She's like all the other typical greaser girls: big-mouthed and brainless. _

_Steve butts in, grabbing my shoulder and shoving me aside. "Leave him out of this." _

"_Sandy, go back to your kid. And stop trying to bug Soda," Steve states. What Steve says is no typical, cruel Steve Randall statement but it's perhaps cruelest of all because it is true._

_Sandy's blue eyes well up but she compensates by flipping Steve and I the bird. "Screw you," she snaps, stumbling away. _

"_What's she doing' here, Steve?" I ask._

"_Back to see her parents for the week. Evie told me." _

_We stand for a few moments in silence then Steve speaks. "Don't you dare tell Soda." _

_I shut my eyes in disbelief that he thinks I'm that stupid. "Steve, give me some credit." _

_He wheels around and snorts sarcastically. "Right. I'm sure you'll be able to keep that trap of yours shut."_

"_What's your damn problem?" I shout, surprised at Steve's sudden anger. _

_He seems surprised at my own because he blinks, his face clearing. "Nothing. It's just-" Steve cuts off abruptly and eyes me strangely. "Just go home Ponyboy." _

_And then I realize the situation. Nearly a year ago, everything had happened. Sandy had gone and so had Johnny and Dallas. _

XXXXX

_August 23, 1967_

_7:32 am_

_"Pone, bad news." Darry calls me over to him. "I can't make it to the meet tonight."_

_"Work? I ask, trying to put my left sneaker on with my right hand and gather up my homework at the same time._

_He sighs. "Yeah, work. I'm sorry kiddo." Darry's hands shift his papers onto the coffee table as he takes a last sip of coffee. "I know Soda can't go either."_

_"It's ok," I say, hopping up and down, high on the knowledge that I'm going to make it to finals today._

_"I'm meeting him at the DX afterwards. We're gonna grab some dinner." I raise an eyebrow. "Want to place an order?"_

_"Umm…just a burger…or something," Darry says absentmindedly. He catches me watching him and rubs a hand over his face. "Sorry. I'm trying to fix this work schedule."_

_"Guess it comes with the territory," I boast, proud of my brother. Darry was recently made Shop Foreman at his job. It gives Soda and I room to breath; now instead of carrying the lumber, Darry gets to make others carry it for him._

_He tries to keep the smile of his face. "Right. The big promotion. An office and everything."_

_"They oughta give you a plaque."_

_Darry rolls his eyes. "You're getting as bad as Sodapop." Pulling himself up from the couch, Darry grabs his keys and jacket. He watches as I switch sides and begin putting on the other sneaker. "I'll see you tonight, kiddo?"_

_I look up from my task and grin. "Yeah, Dar. I'll see you tonight."_

_XXXXX_

_August 23, 1967_

_2:00 pm_

"_Whoa! Whoa, Ponyboy! Calm down!" Andy Lemke cautions as I slam my foot into a locker. He raises an amused eyebrow. "Coach ain't gonna let you run if you break your foot." _

_I take a deep breath and plop down onto one of the benches. "You're right." I rub my toes. "Shit." _

"_What happened?" _

"_Nobody," I say with irritation. Actually, Steve Randle happened but I need to calm down before practice or I'll never be able to run. _

"_You sure about that?" Andy raises an eyebrow, a glimmer of a smile on his face that says he knows all. _

_I raise one too. "You heard it?"_

"_Hell, Ponyboy. I think the whole school did." Andy sits down next to me and lights a smoke. "We're going drag racing tonight," he says changing the subject. "Down on the strip. Wanna come?" _

_The throbbing in my toe and in my head has subsided. I lean back against the locker and shake my head. "I can't. Besides my older brother hates it when I do stupid things."_

_Andy stands up and laughs. "I think I've just been insulted."_

"_I think you're right." _

XXXXX

_August 23, 1967_

_2:23 pm_

_"Curtis," a voice breaks in to my thoughts._

_From my seated place on the track, I stop stretching and look up at the tall figure standing over me. "Hey Stan."_

_Stanley Ezra is someone I can't quite figure out. He's a Soc but if you blink you'd miss it. He's the Socy version of Darry; he'd be a Greaser if it weren't for his money._

_"Did you really ace Ryan's test?" he asks point-blank._

_"Uh, yeah," I stammer, caught off guard._

_"Nice work. You'll have to let me know how you do it."_

_I laugh inwardly; I study, is all I want to say. Instead, I shrug. "Sure."_

_Stan gazes across the track and whistles. "Coach is gonna kill us today. It's in the air." He drops his jacket and backpack next to mine, his gray eyes calm. "See you on the track, Curtis."_

_As I watch him jog off, I smile. Two-Bit is standing on the sidelines, waving with one hand, smoking with the other._

_XXXXX_

_August 23, 1967_

_4:23 pm_

_Andy unlaces his shoes, tossing them into the grass. "Man, I don't know how I survived that," he moans._

_Stan had been right; track practice was brutal._

_I cough into my hands, my breath getting away from me. "You got me. I barely made it."_

_Andy punches my arm as he turns to leave. "Don't be so sly, man. You can't get first place by 'barely' making it."_

_Just then, I am pulled up and off the ground. "Your brothers are gonna be so sorry they missed that!" a voice hollers in my ear._

_When I am finally set back down on the red track, the smiling, mutton-chopped face of Two-Bit Mathews greets me. "Kicking ass and taking names, now that's what I like to see Ponyboy!"_

_"You'll have to give them a detailed play-by-play," I quip, somewhat pleased that Two-Bit has the attention span for track. After various movies and a brief stint in church, who would have thought track would have held his attention?_

_Two-Bit glances at the sky. "Looks like rain. Whattya say I give you a ride down to the DX?"_

_I follow his eyes and stifle a laugh. "It's clear as day, Two-Bit."_

_"Have I ever been wrong?"_

_"Many times, yes."_

_"Fine kid, don't say I never did anything for you." Then my friends face turns serious, his gray eyes stop dancing. "About Steve…"_

_"I don't want to talk about him," I snap. "Go on," I prod, trying to soften my tone. "I have to talk to coach about track finals anyway. I'll see you down there."_

_Two-Bit hesitates briefly. I can see he has more to say but he'll wait until later. He flips me the peace sign and takes off down the field._

_Kneeling down, I watch him leave - my attention diverted - as I gather up my backpack and jacket._

XXXXX

_August 23, 1967_

_4:42 pm_

_I take the shortcut to the DX. Crossing Branson Road, I hop the fence and enter Lake Elmo's woods. It brings back pleasant memories: fishing with our dad, camping trips with Darry and Sodapop._

_The first droplet hits me square on the forehead. I look up to the sky and see the clouds rolling in. I'll have to ask Two-Bit how he does it, I think._

_As I hop the second fence that leads down to the main road, I snag the back my jacket on a loose nail. "Damn it," I say, wriggling out of it. I sling my backpack to the side. My fingers tug at the jacket, careful to not tear it._

_That's when I notice the fabric. It's brown linen, not faded cotton like mine. I shake my head, annoyed at the minor mistake. It's Stan's jacket. And if it weren't for the costly price tag, it could have doubled as mine._

_I smirk, hoping that Stan doesn't throw my jacket out with the trash because I'd really like to get it back._ "Soda'll get a kick out of this," _I say to myself. My words are eerily loud in the quiet woods and I shiver inadvertently._

_Then before I have time to stand up, something hard strikes the back of my head._

XXXXX

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	3. Chapter 3

August 23, 1967

It started out as a feeling  
Which then grew into a hope  
Which then turned into a quiet thought  
Which then turned into a quiet word

And then that word grew louder and louder  
Til it was a battle cry

I'll come back  
When you call me  
No need to say goodbye

-Regina Spektor

_XXXXX_

_August 23, 1967_

_6:49 pm_

_"Ponyboy Curtis," I hear Soda holler as the screen door rattles on its hinges, slamming shut abruptly. "I'm gonna kick your ass for making me take Two-Bit out to dinner. Not to mention that you stood me up, kiddo."_

_I add the last of the detergent and shut the washing machine lid. Frowning, I step out of the laundry room in time to see Soda shrugging off his jacket. "He's not with you?"_

_Soda blinks. "He's not here?"_

_"No. I thought you two went to dinner."_

_Confused, Soda scratches the back of his head. "Well, that was the plan but he never showed. Two-Bit said he was talking to his coach and I figured he just spaced it. You know, like he always does." Soda grins indulgently as if Ponyboy's greatest flaw is Soda's favorite character trait and not my biggest drain on my nerves._

_I sigh with frustration, passing my brother who smells like gasoline and nicotine. "Soda, you need a shower," I tell him._

_"You always were the charmer," Soda drawls._

_"I thought we were past all this Pone," I mutter, sticking my fingers through the blinds to peer outside for my non-existent brother._

_Behind me I hear the shower begin to run. "He won, by the way," Soda calls out._

_"Great. Real great."_

_"Don't worry Dar," Soda assures. "He'll be back. After all, it's a school night."_

_XXXXX_

_August 23, 1967_

_9:58 pm_

_"So are you sure he didn't say anything, anything, about what he was doing after track?" Soda listens intently to Two-Bit who is on the other line. Soda's voice is jovial, only his white knuckles betraying how anxious he is._

_I can't make it out, but Two-Bit's response comes through tinny. I stop pacing, as Soda looks at me shakes his head._

_"No…" Soda continues. "It's alright. Stay home – enjoy your beer. We'll figure something out…Yeah. Thanks."_

_"He said Pony was meeting up with us at the DX. Nothing had changed." Soda repeats Two-Bit's story and hangs up the phone._

_"Yeah, that's what he told me too."_

_I glance at my watch; although I don't need it to tell me that it's been nearly 15 hours since I've seen or spoken with my youngest brother. And despite what Soda thinks, Pony's not one to forget about plans, especially after he had just won a track meet._

_He may be shy, but he'd want all of us to revel in his glory. This thought puts a smile on my lips but it quickly disappears as s__omething stirs inside of me and I make an easy decision. _

_But Soda's already ahead of me. He holds the phone out like a gun; perfectly aimed, intent clear. "You want to call or should I?"_

_XXXXX_

_August 24, 1967_

_7:32 am_

_24 hours. It's at this moment that I realize 24 hours is all it takes to drive someone crazy. Because as I sit staring at the cop in my kitchen and the photo of Ponyboy in his right hand, I know I'm a long way from sane._

_Soda's trying hard not to look at the photo. Instead, he pours himself a cup of coffee and says, "He wouldn't run away." Soda doesn't drink the coffee, instead using it to mask the fact that he's scared._

_"What makes you so sure?" The cop, a kid named Benji Miller, jots down some notes. He's nearly finished questioning us and the only fact that he's stuck on is that Ponyboy has run away. I want to grab him up by the lapels and smack some sense into the kid – who is barely older than me._

_I run my hands through my hair and growl, "We're sure."_

_Soda leans against the kitchen counter and glares at the cop. "I know my brother."_

_Benji raises an eyebrow and glances back down at his notepad. "Well, facts say that about the same time last year he took off. Gone a few days and then came home."_

_"That…that was different," Soda tries in vain to explain. "But I'm sure you know that. Check your notes, Sherlock."_

_"Sodapop," I warn. He quiets, but the muscle in his jaw tightens, telling me he's not done yet._

_"This the most recent photo you have of Ponyboy?" Benji turns to me._

_"Yes."_

_Gently, Benji tucks the photo of Ponyboy into his wallet. "Now as I said, we're going to send out a team to look around the school. Retrace your brother's steps. We'll talk to some classmates, maybe someone saw something."_

_Chuckling, Benji stands up from the table. "I'm sure it's nothing. Kids run off all the time. Especially in this neighborhood."_

_Soda dumps his coffee in the sink, slamming the cup down with a loud thud._

_Catching himself, Benj winces. "I didn't mean-" He turns a deep shade of red, stammering. "I'm sorry. I'll let you know what we find."_

_XXXXX_

Tulsa Police Department

Missing Persons Report for:

PONYBOY MICHAEL CURTIS

Field Notes from Officer Benjamin Miller – Appendix A

I arrived at Lake Elmo on August 24, 1967 at approximately 11:00 am. Numerous sources say that Lake Elmo is a popular shortcut from the Will Rogers High School to the city.

The officers on the scene – Officer Lode, Officer Garland and myself - began combing the woods within a five-mile radius from Branson Road to the eastern dock. The first sweep of the area turned up Ponyboy's backpack. The backpack was located near the main road, apparently discarded. Inside were two notebooks belonging to a P. Curtis and the boy's English paper.

Also discarded, was a brown, linen jacket, which had been snagged on a nail in a fence.

Five feet from the jacket were small traces of dried blood. The blood droplet spatter suggests trauma by blunt force object.

The aforementioned evidence was collected and bagged by Officer Lode. The area was then secured to protect evidence that is at risk of being easily lost or

compromised.

Because of the missing boy and evidence found at the crime scene it is highly suspect that foul play is involved.

_XXXXX_

_August 24, 1967_

_1:27 pm_

_"Damn it."_

_The voice is strained, quiet._

_"C'mon…"_

_Another tug, but it still won't give._

_"God damn it!" The voice rings out, desperate and angry._

_And I am on my second 'God damn it,' when I realize that the voice is my own._

_"Damn it," I whisper, stopping the fight against the ropes. I drop my head and squeeze my eyes shut. I very much want to cry but decide against it. I'll save it for later – when it's needed._

Right now_, I think angrily, taking up the tugging once again, my feet providing me with leverage,_ all I want to do it break these stupid ropes.

_I mentally curse myself, remembering how I had tuned out Darry's Boy Scout lessons. One summer, he had tried to teach Soda and I all about the different kinds of knots and how to escape, but I was more interested in drawing, Sodapop interested in cars._

Shoot, that'll make for one tale of irony down the road.

_My wrists bend and pull against the tight binds but it's a no go. I'm not going anywhere. Welts rise on my skin and I give it a rest for the time being._

_I decide – for lack of anything better to do – to take stock of my predicament. All I know right now is that somebody has taken me. I know the_ What _of the situation. Now, I just need to figure out the_ Who_,_ Where _and_ Why_._

_The room where I am is small and dark. A bed and a nightstand sit in the corner of the room, the lamp on the nightstand the only source of light. There are stairs, which tell me I am in a basement. The only good thing about this is that stairs lead up. And out._

_And me? Well, the good news is that I am no longer tied to a chair. Now, I sit on the cold cement floor, arms in front of me, tied around a lead pipe that leads up to the ceiling._

_As my eyes follow the bottom of the pipe up to its top a large wet drop of water hits me on the head. "Just perfect," I mutter, as the pipe begins to leak._

_XXXXX_

_August 24, 1967_

_2:18 pm_

_Blonde is back._

_"So," he says, sitting down on the ground across from me. "How you like the humble abode?" He smirks and runs a hand through his greasy blonde hair._

_My mind is reeling. I have a number of comebacks I'd like to rattle off but fortunately common sense tells me this is unwise. I don't know whether to be polite, questioning or just shut the hell up. High school never exactly prepared me for Kidnapping 101._

_"Think they're worried about you yet?"_

_His question catches me off guard and I stutter: "I - I'm sure they are."_

_"Good. I'm going to enjoy watching them sweat."_

_My body tenses. "Why are you doing this?"_

_"Sweat. Blood, sweat and cash. Ain't that what it all about?"_

_"We don't have any money." I say with confusion, tugging at the ties._

_"Bad idea, boy. Lying." He watches me fight the ropes. "That ain't gonna get you anywhere."_

_I jerk the ties harder just to spite him. "Let me go."_

_He bares his teeth as he smiles. "Ballsy, I'll give you that much. But that's all you're getting from me."_

_The door above opens and Freckle descends the stairs. "I got some chow, man."_

_Rolling his eyes, Blonde pushes himself off the floor. "Give it to him if he wants." Blonde sits on the bed, loosely pulling a gun from his waistband. He raises his eyebrows, daring me to try anything._

_Kneeling down to me, Freckle unbinds one hand, leaving the other wrist tied to the pipe. He sets a sandwich next to me. "Here. Eat." The sandwich, I notice with dread, is baloney._

_I pick it up but don't eat, my fingers digging into the stale white bread._

_Freckle sighs. "C'mon Stanley. I ain't got all day."_

_The sandwich falls from my fingers. "Stanley?" I feel my eyes shoot open, as I grapple with this new information. "I'm not Stanley. My name's Ponyboy."_

_"A pony what?" Freckle asks, turning away from me to Blonde._

_"No, no, no," I say hurriedly, "I'm not Stanley. My name's Ponyboy Curtis."_

_Blonde gives me a nice-try look. "And I'm not in the mood for this. Play nice and eat that damn sandwich."_

_"No." My face burns. "I hate baloney."_

_Rage crosses Blonde's face. "Suit yourself."_

_Blonde stands up, tucking the gun back into his pants. "Hey," he says getting his partner's attention, "tie him back up and give him a dose."_

Damn it_, I think, as Freckle slides the needle out of its plastic holder._ Damn it.

_XXXXX_

_August 24, 1967_

_2:18 pm_

_"Blood?" I repeat for the third time. "Blood?"_

_William Jessup shifts his weight on our couch. "Yes, son. We believe the blood is Ponyboy's."_

_Darry, leaning against the wall, his arms crossed tight against his chest, speaks up. "How much blood?"_

_Jessup glances from me to Darry. "Not very much. Trace amounts." He sighs. "But taking into account your brother's disappearance this-"_

_"-Can't be good, right?" Darry interrupts calmly._

_Jessup nods. "Yes. I'm sorry to tell you this but we fear your brother may have been involved in some sort foul play. We're looking at all possibilities, but we suspect your brother was…taken."_

_"You mean kidnapped?" Steve snaps from the kitchen. He comes out lighting a cigarette._

_Behind Jessup, Benji Miller eyes Steve. "Normally, this debriefing is open to only family members. I suggest-"_

_"He's family," Darry says, cutting short Benji. Benji stares at the floor._

_"Yes, kidnapped." Jessup answers Steve before turning to me and Darry. "I realize this may seem like a silly question but was there any one who wanted to hurt your brother, any enemies?"_

_"No. No one," I say resolutely._

_"What about the jacket?" Darry asks. My brother has been fixated on the jacket found next to Ponyboy's backpack._

_"Are you sure it's not his?" Benji replies, flipping through his notes. "Classmates remember him wearing a brown jacket on the day of the…disappearance." He clears his throat. "Even Sodapop here has attested to the fact that it could be Ponyboy's."_

_"No," Darry says meeting my eyes. "It's not his. Absolutely not."_

_Benji looks like he has his doubts, but Jessup nods thoughtfully. "Well, whatever the case we'll get to the bottom of it. Our next course of action will be to interview any possible witnesses, launch an in-depth search party."_

_I nearly laugh. "That's it? That's all you're going to do?" The lump in my throat has grown to the size of a grapefruit. The only thing I am really understanding at the moment is the fact that Ponyboy is missing._

_Darry places a hand on my shoulder._

_Jessup stares at me. "No. We need to find him and we'll do that. Right now you just have to be patient. It's a waiting game."_

_"Let us know," Darry begins, reaching out to shake Jessup's hand. "If there's anything we can do."_

_Jessup stands up. "Of course. We'll keep you in the loop." He pulls out a business card and hands it to Darry. "Here's my contact information. Call me whenever you need to."_

_I feel my hands twitch as they say their goodbyes. I can't understand how Darry can be so calm, so understanding. Finally, William Jessup and Benjamin Miller leave._

_"Darry, what are they doing? Why aren't they out there finding him?"_

_Darry shuts the door, locking it. "Sodapop," he says slowly. "I can't give you an answer."_

_I throw my arms up. "Well, who the hell can?" I know I shouldn't, but I leave the room, heading back towards the bedroom._

_"Shit!" I yell kicking the trash can across the room. Ponyboy's crumpled drawings and papers spill out and that's when I really think I will lose it._

_Steve follows me. "Not yet," he warns, his dark eyes composed._

_I stare at him and sit down at Ponyboy's desk._

_Steve shuts the door. "You don't get to do this yet. Give it time. A week, a month; they'll find him."_

_He sits across from me, on the bed. "If they don't, then you can run. But not yet."_

_XXXXX_

FYI for those of you who were a bit confused, the scene w/ Steve and PB will be revealed.


	4. Chapter 4

Read and review please!

Warning: Swearing in this chapter.

XXXXX

Everyone gather 'round now

Sing him a song

Just in case by tomorrow

It happens he's gone

For two weeks and seven days

Our fair foreign friend

I have this feeling

We might never see Steven again

We thought he was gone

But he's shown up again

Last week it was funny

Now the joke's wearing thin

'Cause everyone knows now

That every night now

Will be Steven's last night in town

-Ben Folds Five

XXXXX

_August 25, 1967_

_10:13 am_

_"It says here you go by the name of Two-Bit, am I right Keith?" I ask, sitting down across from the side burned guy. "Can I call you that?"_

_Two-Bit drums his fingers on the aluminum table. "Whatever floats your boat, man."_

_Two-Bit's tired; dark circles below his eyes. I had called his house earlier this morning only to be told by his mother that he was at the Curtis home. Had been in fact, for the past 12 hours._

_"Okay, Two-Bit. I'm sorry to have pulled you away this morning but I hope we can help each other out."_

_The kid says nothing, although I can tell he is doubtful about the reason he is here._

_"You understand why we called you down here, don't you? You're not under suspicion of anything."_

_I play by the rules when they fit. But one thing I always follow protocol on is if someone's not a suspect in a case, I let them know. Cutting through the bullshit makes it easier for me to do my job._

_He sits up straighter, having apparently decided to believe me. "I get it. You need to find the kid, right?" Two-Bit leans into me earnestly. "Ask away. Anything."_

_I pull out the notes Benji had taken earlier this morning and review them briefly. "The day I want to chat about is the 23rd. The altercation between Ponyboy and Steve."_

_Two-Bit blanches, appalled. "I can't believe this. That's your only evidence?"_

_"You have to admit, taking into account the circumstances it's mighty incriminating." I shrug and pull out a pack of Lucky Strike's. I offer him one, which he refuses._

_"Andy Lemke says you were there when it happened. After lunch? Around 1:30?" I prod for more information._

_Still, Two-Bit is silent._

_"They were loud enough for the whole second floor to hear, so if you're not going to talk to me, I'm sure I can find-"_

_"Alright. Fine." Two-Bit says. "Better coming from me than a stupid-ass Soc who'll just make it sound worse than it is." He sighs. "Steve's an idiot. He doesn't think when he speaks but he didn't mean it."_

_I have my questions ready. "Ponyboy and Steve didn't like each other?"_

_"No," Two-Bit refutes. "They didn't get along. There's a difference."_

_"What caused the fight?"_

_"Well, there's a little something we like to call the Sandy Situation…"_

_"And Sandy is…"_

_"Soda's old girlfriend." Frustrated, Two-Bit pinches the bridge of his nose. "Look, basically, Steve didn't want to tell Soda that she was back in town. The kid did. Steve's stubborn, the kid's stubborn. They had it out."_

_I shut my notebook. "So you don't think Steve had anything to do with-"_

_"No way," Two-Bit says dangerously, a muscle pulled taught in his jaw. "No way in hell."_

_I change the subject, knowing I'm not winning him over. The look in Two-Bit's eyes tell me I won't get much further than the previous question. "The last time you saw Ponyboy was…after track practice?"_

_He winces when I say last. "Yeah. I offered to give him a ride to the DX." Two-Bit shakes his head, staring down at the table. "I shoulda waited."_

_"You couldn't have known." I offer him the truest comfort._

_Two-Bit glances at the clock on the wall and clears his throat. "Are we done here?" His chair scrapes away from the table as he stands up._

_"Sure," I agree._

_I watch Two-Bit, evaluating his reaction. "One last question."_

_Two-Bit bristles, his hand on the doorknob._

_"Has Steve told Sodapop about their argument yet? And the…uh, Sandy Situation?"_

_Two-Bit swallows. "It's complicated enough with the kid missing…but no, not yet."_

_He stares at me for a second and then shakes his head. "I'm sorry. I gotta get back," Two-Bit says finally. "They need help."_

_XXXXX_

_August 23, 1967_

_1:42 pm_

_I find him at his locker. "Steve," I say tapping him on the shoulder._

_Steve slams his locker shut. "What."_

_"Hello to you too," I mutter._

_"What Pony?" Steve sighs. "I got class."_

_"I was thinking," I begin in a low voice. "That maybe we should tell Soda about Sandy."_

_"Now why would you do a stupid thing like that?" By his tone, I can tell Steve does not really want an answer._

_"He should know," I say simply. Late last night, as I was lying next to a sleeping Soda, I recalled our conversation about Sandy before I had left for Windrixville. Because I had been gone when Sandy had left, Soda had been so caught up in me that he hadn't had time to cope with Sandy._

_I figured I owed him a chance at closure._

_"Let me handle it," Steve says. "I handled it last time and I'll handle it now. Mind your own goddamned business." He grabs up his bag._

_I feel myself turn red. "But Soda should-"_

_"Oh bullshit!" Steve suddenly shouts at me, causing me to take a step backwards. He lowers his voice, as heads turn to look at us. "You think he should know but you don't always know what's best do you? You don't always do what's best."_

_He punches his finger in my chest. "You're not doing this for Soda – you're doing it for yourself. Because you don't want it on your conscience if he finds out."_

_I shove his finger out of my face. "At least I have a conscience."_

_"Smart little shit," he growls. "Soda does everything for you and you can't even do one measly thing for him." His voice rises again._

_"You're wrong," I hiss shakily. But Steve has already planted that seed of doubt._

_There's a hand on my shoulder; it's Two-Bit. "Save it for recess, kids," he jokes, his eyes serious._

_Steve and I both ignore at him._

_"Forget it," I say, abruptly aware of the stares and whispers filling the hallway. "You handle this. Do whatever makes you happy."_

_I begin to take off down the hall. I'm angry with myself for getting baited into this argument and angry with Steve for possibly having a good point._

_Steve laughs sharply. "You know what'd make me pretty damn happy? Just go disappear for a day and then all my problems will be solved."_

_I stop, turning to look at him over my shoulder. "Steve," I laugh humorlessly. "You're one sorry son of a bitch."_

XXXXX

_August 25, 1967_

_4:29 pm_

_"You nervous, Steve?" Benji asks._

_"No." Steve takes a long drag on his smoke, his glassy black eyes flicking from Benji to myself. "Should I be?"_

_Benji raises an eyebrow. "Well, your leg is going a mile a minute, so you tell me."_

_Steve scowls at Benji, immediately halting his jittery leg. "Yeah, well it's not everyday that I'm hauled in by the fuzz." He sneers as he says this and ashes his smoke._

_A wry smile crosses his face. "Last time I was in an interrogation room, I nearly got set up like a bowling pin. Damn Shepard."_

_From my place in the back corner, I lean back in my chair, uncrossing my legs. "True. But it's also not everyday that your best friend's little brother goes missing."_

_Steve's silent._

_"Is it?"_

_"He's done it before," he mutters._

_Benji jumps on this. "You think he ran off? Just like that?"_

_"No." Another cigarette is lit. "I don't."_

_"Because he does have a tendency to-"_

_"I_ told _you," Steve says forcefully. "He didn't run off."_

_"This time," I interject, earning a glare from Steve._

_"So what do you think happened?" Benji continues, readying his interrogation._

_My eyes narrow as I rest both elbows on my knees, chin in my hands, ready to listen to the briefing I've instructed Benji to do._

_I'm going to let Benjamin Miller do the dirty work here. Not because I dislike doing it, but because it's more important that I watch._

_This interview may turn out to be a necessary but painful formality. __I believe I know where this conversation is headed because I know Steve Randle; he's angry, tough, but he's not violent._

_The only problem is, if I'm right, I have no suspects._

_Benji's nervous. The kid's new at this but he'll do a good job. I clear my throat roughly as Benji turns towards me, eyes questioning. I nod almost imperceptibly, giving him the hint to continue._

_"I don't know," Steve snaps, clearly frustrated. "But what I don't understand is why you're dickin' around here with me when you need to be finding him."_

_Benji leans in. "You know why you're here don't you."_

_If Steve's scared he doesn't show it. "Yeah, I do. But I don't know where he is. I saw him at school and that's all."_

_"You argued."_

_"Is that a crime?"_

_"You said you wanted him to disappear."_

_At this, Steve visibly flinches. "I didn't mean that," he says in a low voice._

_Standing up from his chair, Benji asks, "Are you sure about that?"_

_Steve's head jerks up, his brow furrowed. "What the hell kind of question is that? Of course I'm sure."_

_Benji gives Steve such a look of doubt that I remember why I hired the young rookie. Smiling, I finger my mustache, pleased._

_"Maybe you still had a few bones to pick with the boy. He pissed you off, why wouldn't you?" Benji circles the table. "You strike me as the type of guy who doesn't like to be told what to do."_

_I see Steve clench his fists underneath the table._

_"So after school you follow him down to Lake Elmo…"_

_I just watch. I watch Steve's face pale and screw up in disbelief. The mere suggestion that he is involved with the boy's disappearance is already unnerving him. And it's not because he's guilty. It's because he cares._

_"…And the argument got a little heated, a little out of hand. You got angry and you picked up that rock…"_

_Before either of us know what is happening, Steve is shoving the rickety aluminum table to the other side of the room. He grabs Benji up by the collar._

_"Easy," I warn, my hand on my gun. But I had been expecting this._

_"You're fucking sick if you think I'd hurt that kid," Steve spits. He is almost nose-to-nose with Benji, eyes furious. "You goddamn little shit, you don't know anything." Then Steve lets go of Benji, pushing him into the wall._

_Angry at getting shown up, Benji recovers, sticking his finger in Steve's face. "Sit down and shut up."_

_"No," I speak up. "Let him go."_

_Surprised, Benj turns to me. "Boss?"_

_"It's okay, Miller," I say. "Let him go. We're done."_

_Steve grabs his leather jacket off the chair and slams the door open. The door punches violently into the drywall, leaving a hole where the doorknob should be._

_"You both go to hell." Steve's voice comes out ragged and cracked. Then he is gone._

_"What a hothead," Benji complains, adjusting his collar. "What you think, boss?"_

_"I think…" I say slowly, chewing my lip. "…That we need to get someone in here to patch that wall."_

XXXXX

Reviews are loved and devoured heartily!


	5. Chapter 5

XXXXX

Help, I have done it again

I have been here many times before

Hurt myself again today

And, the worst part is there's no-one else to blame

Be my friend

Hold me, wrap me up

Unfold me

I am small

I'm needy

Warm me up

And breathe me

--Sia

XXXXX

August 25, 1967

6:35 pm

Two-Bit and I enter the house just in time to see Sodapop slam down the phone.

"Who was it?" I shift the grocery bag in my arms, getting a better look at my brother. "What's wrong?"

Red-faced and shaking, Sodapop looks from me to Two-Bit. "A reporter. They wanted a quote for an article that's running tomorrow about Ponyboy."

"What'd you tell them, Sodapop?" I ask.

"I gave 'em a quote all right," Soda says heatedly. "One they can't run in the paper."

I frown at my brother. "Soda, what'd I tell you about talking to them? Hang up the phone." I keep my voice low and steady.

"Soda…" Two-Bit whispers.

I smile inwardly at Two-Bit. Since Pony has disappeared he's been over at the house helping out with chores, food, trying to keep Soda and myself rational. And I swore I never see the kid lift a finger in his life to clean a house. Needless to say, I'm eating my words.

Soda and Two-Bit are having some sort of unspoken conversation. Two-Bit shakes his head and tries to grab the newspaper Soda has just picked up from the coffee table.

Soda turns to me and waves the paper in my face wildly. "Easier said than done, Darry," Soda snaps, abruptly smacking the paper into Two-Bit's outstretched hand. "He's been in here every damn day since he's been gone. I'm sick of it."

"Soda, just-" I reach out to him, feeling for my brother.

"No." Soda grabs the grocery bag from my arms. "_No_ – leave me alone." He stalks into the kitchen.

Unsure of what to say, Two-Bit and I watch Soda unpack the groceries. Cans of vegetables and jars of tomato sauce hit the counter top with angry _bangs_.

"Listen…Darry…" Two-Bit starts. "Have you uh…talked to Steve today?"

"No. Why?"

"Nothing."

I eye him. "What's going on? Does this have to do with talking to the cops?"

Soda and I both know that he and Two-Bit have been called in to talk with the police. We both had to do it; I know the cops are trying to get their facts straight. But it did strike me as a bit odd how uncomfortable Two-Bit and Steve had been acting.

Two-Bit bites his lip.

The phone rings, interrupting us. "We're not done yet," I tell a worried-looking Two-Bit.

Then, "Sodapop, don't you answer that. I'll handle it," I yell intercepting the phone before Soda can snatch it up.

"Hello?…Oh hi, Detective," I say, my heart sinking. It's horrible to admit but with every phone call from William Jessup I anticipate more bad news than good.

As if to echo my thoughts, Soda sinks into my recliner, his face gray.

Detective Jessup and I make the standard pleasantries, he asking how Sodapop and I are doing and I replying numbly that "we're fine" when in reality we're a long way from fine.

Then he says, "We had a suspect, Darrel."

My fingers curl around the phone tighter. "What do you mean, _had_ a suspect?"

"I mean just that. It was nothing and unfortunately for us we're coming up empty. I hate to tell you this Darrel, but the leads are far and few."

"Just stop," I say, not wanting to hear this. I lick my dry lips. "Who was the suspect?"

Jessup pauses. "Steve Randle."

Instantly, I catch Soda's intense gaze. "God damn it," I sigh.

XXXXX

August 26, 1967

6:02 am

I have never known what it's like to be utterly alone. For the first time in my life I am, and it's pretty damn scary.

I've always had someone to fall back on; my parents, the gang, shoot, even Curly Shepard if I was in a jam.

But now…all I have is myself. And judging by the fact that I'm still tied to that pipe things aren't looking too good for the time being.

I have my thoughts but they're not much comfort. I keep thinking about Darry and Sodapop – and I know I'm probably taking it better than they are. At least _I_ know I'm alive. I don't even want to delve into my brothers' thoughts.

But then my brain whirls and spins and I can't keep myself from thinking about "lasts". _The last time I had a piece of chocolate cake, a drink of chocolate milk, the last time I said goodbye to my brothers…_

This keeps repeating itself in my head until I have to verbally tell myself to "Stop it".

I know I need to rally, pull my head out of my ass and get it together; think of a plan. And in time I will. But just like in Windrixville, I'm going to fall apart first before I can muster up a fight.

Blonde and Freckle have done this before. I can read it in their eyes. How it turned out the last time, only they know, and I'm not about to ask. Some things are better left not knowing.

It's been about three days since I've been here but with no windows in the room or sense of time it makes things tough to know for sure. Blonde and Freckle show up about three times a day to either make inane small talk or…

Pained, I try to forget but my eyes fall to my arm. Black and blue bruises make a trail inside the crook of my elbow. I glower at the marks, remembering how much I hate needles. Whatever Blonde gives me either wakes me up or makes me sleep. But either way it's not pleasant.

How I'm eating or sleeping is beyond me, but I manage to do both, albeit numbly. I don't taste or feel anything. But I don't eat the baloney sandwiches, never baloney.

This is one insane, crazy nightmare of mine that has come true.

"You have got to get out of here," I tell myself firmly and tug again on the ropes, my swollen wrists protesting their pain. I can't – _I won't_ - lose this, because, like track, the only way I know to finish is to finish first.

XXXXX

August 26, 1967

9:12 am

I take a sip of my drink, trying to squeeze out the last of my sober thoughts. The amber liquid in my glass is soothing as I concentrate on the faint strains of music coming from the jukebox.

"You know you should be drinking coffee and not booze at this hour, don't you kid?" the bartender tells me. He refills my drink nonetheless.

"I don't drink coffee." I take another sip.

"Yeah, I can see that."

I don't need to turn my head to know that it's Steve who's sitting down beside me. He shifts his weight on the stool. "I heard you were over on Sutton and Ivey running up a tab, and here you are."

"Guess word gets around," I murmur.

"C'mon Soda." Steve pats my shoulder, trying to pull my drink away.

"No more," he instructs the bartender, then turns back to me. "Darry's worried about you."

"I know that." Ignoring his instruction, I reach for my glass. Steve fights me for a second and then lets me have it.

"I'll have a beer," he calls across the bar.

We sit in silence for a few seconds.

"You didn't call me back yesterday," Steve says plainly.

"Steve, you should have done the talking a whole hell of a lot earlier. Not have Darry tell me about your conversation."

"I'm not arguing with you," he agrees.

Downing the rest of the whiskey, I twist around in my seat to face Steve. "Why didn't you tell me Steve? I don't understand-"

"I didn't think it would help anything," Steve begins slowly, caught-off guard at my bluntness. "Sandy…I could tell she just wanted to mess with-"

"Screw goddamned Sandy!" I slam my fist on the bar top, my buzz kicking in. "That's not what I'm talking about. I'm talking about you and Ponyboy – why didn't you tell me the cops had hauled you in for what you _said_?"

Normally, I wouldn't give shit about any of it. I'd laugh it off as Steve being too protective and Ponyboy being too sensitive. And I'd make up my own mind whether or not I'd even see her.

What I really give a shit about is that I didn't know _anything_ about everything: Sandy, Steve and Pony's argument, the cops' interrogation of Steve as a potential suspect. That thought sickens me.

"I don't know Soda," Steve tries to explain. "Poor timing, bad judgment…all kinds of horseshit I know you don't care about right now."

Tired and frustrated, I snake my fingers through my unwashed hair and press my palms into my eyes. "Shit, Steve," I murmur. "Sandy was just poor timing and you're an idiot; but now Pony's gone and everything…well, everything is shit. Everything is worse than it should be."

"I know man."

"Just tell me Steve…" I stare at him blankly. "You said that? You really said that to my brother?"

Steve clutches his beer bottle as if it's a life preserver. "Yeah, I did. But Soda, I swear I didn't mean it."

"Bull. I know you Steve. You always say what you mean."

Disturbed, Steve hisses, "Okay, fine. Sure. I meant it at the time. But I didn't want it to actually happen. Pony - he gets on my nerves but I'd never hurt that kid. Never."

"If it makes you feel any better," Steve grunts. "He called me 'one sorry son of a bitch'."

I smile, unable to help myself. "He said that?"

Steve grins as well. "Yeah. That kid has quite a mouth on him."

Yawning, my eyes burn from the sleepless night I have had.

"Let's get back," Steve says, clasping my shoulder.

"One sec." I stand up and reach across the bar, sliding this morning's newspaper in front of Steve's face. "Will you look at this shit?"

The headline "LOCAL BOY MISSING" jumps out at us from the front page of the Tulsa World.

Steve picks it up, reading it silently.

"There's nothing about you in there," I remark, standing up from my seat, only to sway in the process.

"That's not what I was looking for." Steve lifts an eyebrow. "They didn't run your quote."

"Darry told you about that huh?" I chuckle. "So much for freedom of speech." I don't need to steady myself, but I reach out to grip Steve's arm. "Pony didn't run away."

Steve's smile turns sad. "Soda, I know that." He crumples the paper between his palms, letting it fall to the dusty floor beneath our shoes.

My grip tightens. "When they find Pony – when they find out who took him – it's going to be all over for them."

"I know that too," Steve replies evenly.

XXXXX

August 27, 1967

7:19 am

"I think we should tell someone."

"Are you crazy? I thought we weren't going to say anything, Ricky."

"Yeah but…that was before that boy was on the news. In the _paper_. It's serious now. Kids are talking about it at school. The police were _there_."

"So?"

"What if he's _dead_?"

"He ain't dead. 'Sides we're gonna get in trouble. What you think they're gonna do when we tell the cops we saw it and didn't say anything?"

"But we are now…"

"Cops don't care. They'll lock us up, sure thing."

"We're 10, Jimmy."

"Yeah, well, cops don't care. I've seen 'em lock up grandmas, babies even."

"Whatever. _I_ don't care. I'm telling my mom."

"Ricky, I don't-"

"You telling yours?"

"Ok, but if I get grounded you're on your own at recess."

XXXXX

Reviews are greatly appreciated. What you like, what don't you like, what you want to see…all are considered and taken happily! ;)


	6. Chapter 6

Hello! Please read and review!! Sorry for the delay! Thanks SO much for all the great reviews, suggestions.

XXXXX

Always, no sometimes, I think it's me,

But you know I know when it's a dream.

I think I know I mean a 'Yes'.

But it's all wrong.

That is I think I disagree.

-The Beatles

XXXXX

August 27, 1967

10:04 am

The prick wakes me up first. And I'm not talking about the needle.

As sleep fades, the needle pinches and then I come to with such a jolt that the guy in front of me jumps back.

"Jesus Christ." It's Blonde. "Scared the shit out of me."

Instantly, my heart begins pumping, thudding away in my chest, my ears, my entire body. His act, the needle, the sensation is nothing new but it's still unpleasant.

"C'mon. Rise and shine." Blonde shakes my shoulders. "We're going to write a letter, Stanley. I think we worried the 'rents long enough. Don't you?" Clearly, he's happy about this because he smiles.

"No," I say between gritted teeth, ignoring the fact that the room is now beginning to fall in and out of focus. "No, they're not worried. Because my parents are _dead_. _Dead_. I'm telling you – I've _told_ you a hundred times: I'm not Stanley."

Blonde cocks his head ands _tsks_. "And I told you boy, I don't like liars. Now if I hear any more about how you're not Stanley I swear to god I won't play nice anymore."

He reaches down and unties my left hand, leaving my right still tied to the pipe. A grimy sandwich is placed next to me. "Eat up."

Moving away from me, Blonde sits on the dirty mattress and pulls out a pen and sheet of paper. "Now, how should I begin?"

At my silence, Blonde continues, "We gave 'em a few days to notice you're gone…now we'll let 'em know you still got all your body parts."

Angered, I feel my jaw tighten but say nothing. Despite the fact that I have a list of retorts that would make Dallas Winston proud, there's someone in my mind whispering at me to _just shut up_. I reckon it's Darry.

Blonde keeps talking and begins writing. "So, how about something like 'Dear Ma and Pa…you may have noticed by now that your boy is missing. Luckily he is in good hands-" Blonde looks up at me. "…For the moment."

"He'll be returned to you as safe as we found him. That is if you come up the dough."

Blonde smiles slowly. "Ten thousand should do it." His smile turns into a bitter mask. "I know they have it."

I catch his tone, his angry gaze and somehow know that this goes a whole lot deeper than a random kidnapping.

The mask falling away, Blonde shrugs and tosses the letter on the ground. "Or something like that. Keep it short and sweet."

"It doesn't matter…" I shake my heavy head. "I don't know what you want but you're not going to get it."

I can't help it but I still feel like I'm throwing Stanley under the bus when I say: "I'm not Stanley Ezra. You got the wrong person."

Blonde shakes his head. "You know that's the beauty of the meds. I want you to talk, you're up. I want you to shut up, you're out. Makes life easier on all of us. It's a pretty perfect system actually." He eyes me pointedly, daring me to argue some more.

I get the hint and shut my trap. I feel my fists clench in frustration. _Why won't he listen? _

As Blonde reads over the letter, I toy with the sandwich, peeling the crust off in a one long movement.

Then the letter is folded up and placed in an envelope, no doubt for delivery.

I shiver as the pipe above me begins to leak again. The water drips onto my tied hand, down the back of my shirt. Giving up, I toss the sandwich aside. I have no appetite.

"Not hungry?" Blonde asks, once again kneeling down next to me. "Well you had your chance," he says, re-tying my free hand around the pipe.

He's so close to me, I bristle at his touch. Blonde's breath smells like rancid beer, his raspy voice grating my nerves. His fingers fly over the ropes, knotting them tight, roughly.

_I'm never getting out of here_, I think, staring at Blonde's profile. I've always been accused of being foolish, idealistic, but this time I'm facing up to it: I've seen their faces – they're not going to let me go.

Inside me, pain and anger wage a war as to which one will bubble over first.

Anger wins.

"You're an idiot," I say abruptly to Blonde. Surprised, his motions halt.

I pull away to look him direct in the eyes. "You don't know what you've done but you're going to be sorry. They're gonna make you pay for what you do to me." I nearly blink in astonishment as I say this because they're someone else's words; a stranger's, a Soc's, Dally's…. But I taste them and feel them as if they are my own. Deep in my bones I mean this. I hate myself for it but I mean it.

It's silent for a moment. Suddenly Blonde's hand shoots out to slap me full across the face. I jerk back at the unpleasant sensation, my face throbbing.

"Don't do that," Blonde seethes. He grabs my chin in one hand, forcing me to look at him. "You're a wily little bastard but I got all kinds of things to shut you up. So take your pick. Making threats ain't going to get you out of here any sooner, boy."

"It's not a threat," I reply, heart thumping in my chest. "And you're not planning to let me go."

Blonde blinks, his eyes narrowing. "You don't know that."

"Yeah, but I know a liar."

XXXXX

August 27, 1967

1:26 pm

Bright sunlight filters into the large dining room, illuminating the Riverside residence. But it's anything but a happy occasion, the sunlight seeming out of place, foreign.

"I am so sorry Detective Jessup." Mrs. Riverside is apologizing to me for nearly the fifth time today. "If I had known, I would have come to you immediately."

"It's fine, ma'am" I assure her, although my eyes are on the two figures speaking across the room. "The important thing is that Ricky has come forward. Now we have a lead."

_Which isn't much_. I glance down at my notes and then at the people hovering around the room. Thankfully, Benji is interviewing the other 10-year old Jimmy Tompkins, who if I had a chance to smack some manners into the kid I would gladly accept the offer.

The other two – the brothers – are talking to Ricky. Ricky had seemed reluctant to talk to the police so I had suggested that Darrel and Sodapop give it a try. The families always crack a witness, sometimes harder than us cops.

The younger brother, Sodapop is in deep conversation with Ricky while Darry is pacing back and forth in front of the bay window. Every now and then he'll massage his temples and breathe into his hands; a calming exercise that I doubt works.

I nod at Carla Riverside, sticking a piece of gum in my mouth. "It's kind of you to let the boys chat with your son."

"Of course, Detective. Their poor brother is missing." Carla wrings her hands. "My son just doesn't think. He just doesn't use his head."

At Carla Riverside's words, I notice Darry Curtis wince, like someone has stabbed him in the gut.

"Excuse me," I say to Carla. "I'd best get back to your son."

_The kid's tough_, I think as I make my way over to Ricky and Sodapop. Getting grilled by the older brother of someone lost and gone would be bound to make anyone freeze up.

So far, the kids haven't told us much. Just that they saw Ponyboy Curtis at Lake Elmo and they saw who took him. It's been a frustrating two hours but I'm not leaving until I have a description.

"Can you tell me what happened Ricky?" Sodapop Curtis is nearly pleading. "It's important that we find him so he can come home." Soda's voice is soft and soothing, one he has used before, no doubt on his youngest brother.

"You're not in any trouble Ricky," I repeat, sitting down next to the kid. "You'll be helping us out a lot by telling us what you know."

"Are you sure?" Ricky asks in a small voice. "Jimmy said we'd go to jail."

I chew on my gum. "Jimmy's a liar." Behind me, I hear Jimmy's mother suck in a breath of indignation at this, but I ignore her.

"Really?" Ricky asks again.

"Positive."

Ricky takes a shuddery breath. "Ok. Ok."

I say nothing, fearful of scaring him off. I open my notebook. Sodapop tenses but nods in reassurance.

"Jimmy and me, we were playing down by Lake Elmo." He bites his lip. "We were both grounded, we shouldn't have been out..."

"It was Ricky's idea!" Jimmy shouts from across the room. This earns him a slap on the back of the head from his mother and an angry glare from Benji Miller.

"I-I was making a fort down by the stream…" Ricky continues, his worried gaze on Jimmy. "…When I saw Ponyboy hop the fence." He looks at Sodapop. "My friend Jeff Lemke's brother Andy runs track with Pony. He's a real good runner."

"Thanks." Soda manages a weak smile.

"Then what happened?" I prod.

Ricky frowns, trying to conjure up the past. "Then…then…he hooked his jacket on something. He took it off and was trying to unhook it. W-When he was bending over…these guys came up…"

Darry turns away, staring at nothing outside the bay window, his hands fists.

"…The guys hit him with this rock. And then they put him in their van and left." Ricky begins to cry. "I'm sorry, I don't know where they took him."

"It's ok, honey," Carla Riverside soothes. "You're doing great."

Soda just sits very still on his chair. Darry approaches, rubbing his brother's back in slow circles.

"It all happened so fast. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," Ricky cries. Jimmy looks on uneasily.

"Ricky, was Pony still alive?" It's blunt, but I have to ask.

The room is thick with tension; Sodapop Curtis looks ready to bolt from the room dependent on the answer.

Taken aback, Ricky looks over to Jimmy. Jimmy shrugs lackadaisically. "I –I think so…I think he was breathing."

"You need to be sure boys," I reprimand sternly. I can't go into the gray with this case; I need either black or white answers.

"Wait! He was!" Jimmy exclaims, remembering. "He groaned when they put him in the van."

Soda either coughs or sobs into his hand. I don't turn to look at him because I am already asking, "Ricky, do you remember what these men looked like?"

"Yeah. Um…the taller one had blonde hair, real skinny. The other guy was shorter with brown hair."

Here, the boys falter. I resist the urge to groan at these typical descriptions. They may be true, but without anything more to go on all we have are ghosts.

"Did they have call each other by any names? Have any distinguishing characteristics?" Benji asks, taking up the slack.

Jimmy and Ricky look at each other.

"What about the van?" Benji prods. "Color?"

"Black," Jimmy answers.

Ricky hangs his head and wipes at his eyes. "We didn't see the plates."

XXXXX

August 27, 1967

3:33 pm

"Ponyboy," Darry sighs, as I finally come to. "What're you doing?"

I sit up and rub my eyes as the room swims in dull light. "This is all your fault you know." I glare at my brother.

"Is it?" Darry crosses his arms.

"Yes," I say, trying not to sound pitiful. "If you weren't always working, you would have been there to watch the meet. And if you had been there to watch the meet-"

Sighing, I give up the blame game. "It's no ones fault."

Darry raises an eyebrow nodding in the direction of the basement door that Blonde and Freckle use. "Except theirs."

"Well yeah, except theirs."

"I'm going to kill them."

I can't tell if he's serious. "Don't do that. Then you'll go to jail and I'll be left to eat Soda's cooking by myself."

Laughing, Darry uncrosses his arms. "We'll see."

I jerk on my ropes. "I hate these things. I hate it here and I hate _them_. I wanna come home. I want a cigarette." I haven't had one in god knows how long and I'm really starting to feel it.

"Keep it together," Darry says, a trace of worry in his tone.

"How come you're always right?" I mumble, trying to fiddle with the ropes.

"Pone, I'm not always right. But listen to me. For once."

I open my mouth to argue with him but sneeze instead. Walking over to me Darry kneels down and touches the ropes. "Goddamn you're stupid."

Darry is suddenly Steve.

My eyes snap shut and I pull back. "Oh god, go back to Darry."

Steve smirks, standing up. "No such luck Pone."

"Don't you have a hub cap to steal?"

"You got me into some trouble with the fuzz."

"Did I?" I fight a grin. "Maybe that'll teach you to flap that big mouth of yours."

Steve steps in a puddle of water as he circles the room; his foot comes away dry. "Keep talking kid, I'll leave you here."

Frowning, I stare at his dry shoe and then look up at him. "No - don't go. I don't want to be here alone."

Steve suddenly has a smoke in his hand. "Nobody wants that Ponyboy."

"Yeah, well then how come-" I stop.

"Oh god," I moan as the "Steve" phantom disappears. I've been talking to myself; hallucinating if I want to call it for what it is.

I know they're not giving me "meds" as Blonde puts it. Plain and simple they're drugs but I have no clue what kind.

_This is hopeless_, I think, feeling the sting of tears in my eyes. I blink rapidly, willing myself to keep sharp. However, the brief taste of home – albeit a hallucination – has felled me.

Another thing that has me scared is the disappearance of Blonde and Freckle. No one has come down to check on me for the last few hours. Usually, I can hear them above me, voices muffled, floorboards creaking. Today there's been nothing.

Images and thoughts float into my mind. _I'll be left here_, I think, feeling suddenly sorry for not eating the sandwich. _No one will ever find me. I'll starve. I'll die here, left to rot and when my brothers find me-_

"Stop it!" I whisper sharply to myself. I take a breath and shake my head, trying to clear the morbid images.

I glance again at the ceiling, at the door.

_They can't be in the house_.

_Just do it_, someone whispers.

It seems useless but I give it a shot. "Hello?" I shout, nearly screaming. My voice echoes around the room, tinny, frightened. "Can anyone hear me? Hello? Somebody help! Somebody please help!"

The only thing that answers is silence.

XXXXX

Reviews please??


	7. Chapter 7

XXXXX

Yay for updating! Sorry it's been so long. Please forgive!

And yay for reviews – so please leave me some!

XXXXX

'Cause he gets up in the morning,

And he goes to work at nine,

And he comes back home at five-thirty,

Gets the same train every time.

'Cause his world is built round punctuality,

It never fails.

And he's oh, so good,

And he's oh, so fine,

And he's oh, so healthy,

In his body and his mind.

He's a well-respected man about town,

Doing the best things so conservatively.

-The Kinks

XXXXX

August 27, 1967

3:59 pm

"I can't," Soda is saying, imploring Darry, as he steps outside. "I can't drive. You take them." He shoves the keys to the truck into Darry's hands, leaving us standing in the middle of the Riversides' sidewalk.

Darry watches his brother climb into the passenger seat and light a cigarette, waiting to leave the mind-numbing exhaustion that has been his afternoon. Soda avoids looking at us, instead choosing to stare out his window, into the neighbors yard.

"So, where does this leave us?" Darry swallows thickly, his gaze reluctantly torn from Sodapop to me.

The gum in my mouth has long since tired out but something tells me that it is not particularly good etiquette to spit it on the ground. Instead, I tuck it into the side of my gum before speaking to Darry Curtis.

"We hope to get a positive ID on these guys. Blast their sketches across town: TV, paper. See if anyone's seen anything. Scare 'em out of hiding." Benji is inside right now trying to coax a sketch out of the kids and I hope he's making progress.

"And if you don't?"

"One way or another, we'll find him Darrel."

There's a long pause and finally Darry chokes out: "It's the 'another' part that scares me." Guilt at saying this passes across his face and he dares a quick glance at Sodapop.

I quickly deflect this; it's too early for me think about any other possibility than finding Ponyboy alive. It's only been four days. Four days is nothing to me; although, I know it's much more to these boys.

"You need to go home. Let us handle it." I tell Darry.

Darry can't be put off. "Who would take him?"

Seeing the need – the _greed_ – in this young kid to understand, to explain what has happened heartens me, bolsters me. Many times the victims' families depend on us for the answers, when in fact they have them all along or could answer them better than any of us. We just have to put the puzzle together.

"No enemies?"

"No." Darry shrugs. "Unless you count the Socs."

"I don't," I say. "If it had been them we would've sniffed them out in a second."

"And no offense, you aren't exactly Charles Lindbergh." I stick another piece of gum in my mouth to quell the stiff sensation of the piece tucked under my gum.

Darry raises his hands. He shakes his head as I offer him a piece of gum.

"So there's no reason for ransom," I explain. "And revenge and money are two of the main factors in cases like this."

"Tell me," Darry demands. "What you think."

I nod slowly. "It's hard to say...but I think…it's random…if that's what it is."

A tendon pops in Darry's neck. "You still don't think he ran away…"

"I don't. And I hate to keep asking this…but about this jacket-"

"It's not his." Frustrated, Darry takes a step back, his face red. "I'd never buy it for him."

At my puzzled look, Darry explains. "Look, my brother loses stuff, misplaces things. He's young, he forgets a lot…" Here, Darry gives a small, affectionate laugh. "The jacket is too nice to be his. Ponyboy would have put that jacket through the ringer by now."

"I just have to be sure that-"

"_Damn it_, I'm positive. I'd bet my-" Darry cuts off abruptly, realizing his poor choice of words. Pale, he swallows the lump in his throat, his eyes falling to the ground.

"It all has to be a mistake," he whispers to himself.

Before I can reply, evaluate his words, the front door opens and Benji Miller steps out.

"They got nothing else," he announces, holding up a sketch.

XXXXX

August 27, 1967

5:01 pm

I have just finished having another conversation with 'Darry' when the door swings open. Blonde thunders down the stairs, quickly followed by Freckle. Blonde grips a newspaper in his left hand.

My eyes widen as I recognize the person on the front page: it's me. It's one of my recent school photos; one I imagine Darry has given to the police.

I guess seeing is finally believing for Blonde because he shakes open the newspaper, holding it up to me. "I bet you think this is pretty funny."

I shouldn't but I can't help it. I smirk. It's the satisfactory equivalent of telling Two-Bit "I told you so" after he swore the bottle of vodka wouldn't do him in, but lo and behold the next morning our toilet bowl never looked so good.

Then, without warning, Blonde strides over and kicks me in the stomach with his boot. Emitting a shocked gasp, I double over, gripping the pipe hard.

"You're getting on my last nerve!" Blonde yells. The worry and anger warring in his voice is evident. He knows he screwed up.

I twist around, my face flushed. "Yeah, I'm not too fond of you either."

Another sharp kick to my stomach. I screw my eyes shut as Blonde says, "Keep talking you little shit."

Blonde turns on Freckle. "How in the hell did this happen?" he roars, swatting Freckle with the newspaper. It'd be almost comical if it weren't for the throbbing in my body.

Freckle fumbles with something in his pockets and then stammers. "Man, I swear I scoped him out." He pulls a few black and white photographs out and shoves them at Blonde. "They looked the same. God damn they looked the same."

"Sure they do. From 20 feet away, anyone can look the same, you idiot!" Blonde yells, slapping the photographs to the ground.

The photos show a boy who _could_ be me. He's shot in semi-profile, wearing our high school's track uniform, as he walks up to a house, which sure ain't ours. Another photo shows him in a brown jacket similar to mine, tossing a football in his yard, again semi-profile.

But it's not me. It's Stanley Ezra and I'm wondering how these guys could have been so stupid and made such a mistake.

Breathing heavily, Blonde stares at me as if my mere presence is making him ill. "Shit. Shit. _Shitshitshit_."

"You shoulda done it," Freckle says to Blonde, nodding in my direction. "You woulda known if it was him or not."

"No," Blonde bites out coldly. "I wouldn't have." He shoves Freckle roughly. "But I would have damn well made sure I had the right boy."

"Well, what're we gonna do with him now?" Freckle asks.

Blonde just looks at me.

XXXXX

August 27, 1967

11:19 pm

The ceiling dares me to come up with the answers. Doubting me, challenging me. "I got nothin'," I tell it.

Even now, lying in bed next to my wife, my thoughts are on Ponyboy Curtis. Missing kid cases are never easy and because I'm a betting man I can't stop myself from giving the victim what I think to be their personality, their likes and dislikes, their fears…

It's a game I play, and when I find them, when I meet them, I get to see if I pegged them right. But it's a trick bet; either way I win because they're alive.

I run through what I know. From all accounts, Ponyboy's a shy, quiet, extremely bright child. He lives in a bad neighborhood…dead parents, but fiercely loyal friends.

His brothers are intense. From our first meeting, I already knew they'd do anything for him, whether it be fight, kill or die.

I roll from my back onto my side, painting myself a picture.

If he's alive, I believe him to be tied up, incapacitated somehow. He's afraid but won't show it. He grew up tough – maybe not as tough as his big brother – but he's smart and he's tough enough to keep his head together, maybe even come up with a plan.

However, judging from the situation he was in last year and his parents' death, the boy's not immune to pain. In fact, he's gone through a lot for such a young age and I wonder if this will break him, cause him to shut down and crawl inside, as it does so many others.

I smile to myself in the darkness. But what do I know? I could be dead wrong. This is just an exercise to keep me sane.

"Will?" my wife murmurs. "Are you still up?"

I reach over to pat her hand. "I am. Go back to sleep Connie."

She sits up, smiling slightly. "How can I? Your thoughts are so loud, I can practically hear you."

Connie flicks the tableside lamp on. I wince as the harsh light floods the room. "Go easy on the corneas, hon," I joke.

"Which case are you thinking about?" she asks, beginning our usual ritual: I resist telling her about any case in the beginning, and then on one of these sleepless nights, I spill the beans and earn sleep for my confession.

"The missing kid – Ponyboy Curtis."

Connie tilts her head, blonde hair spilling over her shoulder. "Is he the one who was in that mess a year ago?"

"The one and only." I prop myself up on my elbow. "His friend killed a kid in self defense and he got pulled in all kinds of different directions." I raise an eyebrow. "That name sure sticks with you, don't it?"

She smiles, then asks: "So there's still no luck?"

"Oh, we got a few pieces of the puzzle, but no glue; nothing to hold it together. He's gone. That's about all we know."

"That poor boy," Connie muses, stifling a yawn. "He always seems to be in the wrong place at the wrong time."

A trigger is pulled inside of me as my brain makes a distant, long awaited connection. Words Darry Curtis has said float back into my head…

_The jacket is _too nice_ to be his…_

… _Has to be a _mistake

Benji interviewing the Curtis's…_Classmates remember _him_ wearing a brown jacket…_

And then there are the words of my wife_…Wrong place…wrong time…_

I get it then: Wrong boy.

XXXXX

August 28, 1967

9:10 am

Darry Curtis answers the door the next morning wearing the same clothes I saw him in yesterday. The light beard on his face does not do him any favors either. He's tired and worn-out.

"I need to talk to you," I say.

Darry hesitates, and I know he is looking at me in my full uniform and wondering what is wrong since I am a plainclothes officer. The formality scares him.

"We have some news on your brother," I say quietly.

He takes a breath and opens the screen door, stepping outside. Before he closes it shut behind him, I glimpse Sodapop asleep on the couch.

Swallowing nervously, he says with a pained expression, "Just tell me."

I catch the weight in his words and know that I have inadvertently worried him. I take my hat off and shake my head, feeling like a shit. "Darrell, no. It's not what you think."

Darry sags against the doorframe, visibly relieved. His blue eyes are dull. "What is it then?"

"You were right," I tell him, pleased, anxious to break the news. "It wasn't your brother's jacket. We found the owner – Stanley Ezra."

Darry frowns, thinking. "Stanley…" He places a face to the name. "They run track together."

"Exactly. And as of 8:45 this morning, I have five members of the track team saying they remember Stanley wearing a brown jacket as well."

After last night, I got the breakthrough I needed. And first thing this morning, I had gone down to Will Rogers High School and asked the questions I already knew the answers to. The uniform I hate to wear got a lot of the track team to talk.

"But I don't understand…" Darry rubs the back of his head, confused. "What does Stanley have to do-"

Re-energized from the break in the case, I launch into explaining. "They accidentally switched jackets, Darrell. They switched jackets and the wrong boy was grabbed. Whoever took your brother, thought he was Stanley Ezra."

Darry covers his mouth with his hand.

XXXXX

Please review. Much obliged. ;)


	8. Chapter 8

August 28, 1967

Yes - another update for you all. Please read and review!

To Percussion: I'm not sure how many chapters I have left. I can either continue beyond the kidnapping or wrap this all up in a nice, tiny ball. It depends on what you all think…so let me know!

And no, as of now, I have nothing else in the works. Thanks for reading and the comments!

XXXXX

They're gonna clean up your looks

With all the lies on the books

To make a citizen out of you

Because they sleep with a gun

And keep an eye on you son

So they can watch all the things you do

Because the drugs never work

They're gonna give you a smirk

Cause they got methods

Of keeping you clean

They're gonna rip off your heads

Your aspirations to shreds

Another cog in the murder machine

-My Chemical Romance

XXXXX

August 28, 1967

1:52 pm

"I should've shaved."

Soda looks over at me. "Why? No one cares."

I frown as I glance at my brother. For the first time since Pony has disappeared, his eyes finally have life in them; but it's crazed, angry. I open my mouth to caution him but nothing comes out.

Instead, I say: "I didn't want to show up looking like a bum."

Soda avoids my eyes, knowing that wasn't the retort I was looking for. "I'm knocking," he tells me. His fist flies out to rap the door three quick times.

As we wait, I curse myself for my inability to communicate with Sodapop. I don't feel like I can comfort him. Partially because he refuses it and the rest of the time I am awkward and at a loss.

"Yes?" The door has been opened, a woman with auburn hair stares out at us. "How may I help you?" Her face wears a slightly suspicious expression.

"Ma'am, I'm Darrell Curtis-"

"Well, it's not pleasant, but it is a surprise," she sniffs.

I place a hand on the doorframe, already finding it rough to maintain a calm composure. All I want is some information and this time, I'm not against yelling to get it. I give her another chance. "I'm sorry. We just came-"

"What do you want? This is not a good time," she says curtly. "My son has just spent his entire morning being interviewed by the police."

"You're lucky then," Soda speaks up, his voice shaky. "At least you know where he is."

I don't turn to face Soda, instead keeping an eye on the woman. She pales considerably and then opens the door wider. "Fine. Ten minutes."

XXXXX

August 28, 1967

2:05 pm

"We can't keep you around. Can't risk it. Especially not now…" Freckle rattles drunkenly.

Dazed, I smile. I am trying to care about what he is saying but I can't. Freckle has numbed the both of us. Perhaps telling me this is as hard on him as it is on me to hear it.

Which is why he is currently on his fifth beer and I have just been used as a pincushion. My arm throbs.

I am lying on my side on the wet ground, staring at Freckle. My hands jutted out in front of me, still tied around the pipe. Water continues to drip on the rope, rolling down my wrists, onto the ground.

I dimly realize that Freckly is crying, sniffling like a child. He wipes at his nose. "I didn't wanna do it. But hell's bells…you looked like him in the photo. I thought it'd be easy."

"I wouldn't tell anyone," I say, trying to fit a coherent sentence together. "I just – I need to get back." I struggle to sit up, get my bearings but fail. I let out what I think is a sob but instead giggle. "My brothers…"

He seems to consider this, but then negates my plea with a shake of his head. "I dig that kid. But no chance. If only you had been Stan."

"If only…" I mumble, my eyes heavy as stones. _Ponyboy_, I think to myself, as I realize the cryptic tone in Freckle's words, _you're_ _gonna die_.

Freckle shakes his head. "I don't know what Ezra wants or when he wants it but I got to do what he says."

I cock my head in confusion, trying to keep myself awake."Please," I murmur softly_._

Not hearing me, Freckle stumbles to his feet. He finishes his beer and tosses the bottle into a corner, where it shatters, glass spilling everywhere. "I'm glad we had this talk," he slurs.

XXXXX

August 28, 1967

2:12 pm

_Did whoever take Ponyboy want all this?_ I instantly think upon setting foot inside the home of Stanley Ezra.

The living room is decorated with furniture I wouldn't feel comfortable breathing around, let alone sitting on. On the fireplace mantle, numerous photos rest of Stanley. There's a photo of Stanley and his parents; a photo of Hannah and another man; a photo of Stanley in action, sprinting around the track; a photograph of the family dog.

"Please have a seat," Hannah Ezra offers, interrupting my gaze. "Stanley will be right down."

Pained at seeing the photo, I nod stiffly and take a seat. Soda remains standing, as if readying himself to run or attack if need be.

Hannah settles herself across from me, crossing her legs primly. "I am very sorry for your brother. But unfortunately, I don't see how my son can help you." She smiles falsely.

"Then what about you?" Soda replies, stone-faced. "Who made the mistake?"

Hannah's brown eyes blaze. "No one."

I frown. "So, the police have it wrong?"

Shifting in her seat, Hannah twists the ring on her left hand. "I do not appreciate you trying to make your problems ours. No one would take our son."

"Hannah," a voice chastises. "This is hard enough on everyone."

"I don't care, Don!" Hannah exclaims to the man who has entered the room. "We already told the police all we can, I don't see why we have to-"

"Honey, these boys are just worried. Relax." The man, closest to Soda, holds out his hand. "Don Ezra, Stanley's father."

Soda takes it. I rise to shake his hand as well. "I'm sorry to just drop in like this…"

Don raises his hand, oblivious to his wife's angry stare. "I understand. You want answers. I've already told Detective Jessup all I know."

He shrugs apologetically. "I can't think of anyone who would have wanted to hurt Stan, but I'm a prosecutor…who knows it may have been a case I once had…"

Soda looks as lost as I feel. Instead of getting answer, we just have more questions, more tentative explanations.

Don Ezra unbuttons his suit jacket and rests against the fireplace mantle. His shoulder knocks the row of photos and Hannah nearly jumps out of her seat as the photo of her and the other man falls over.

Don gives her a strange look and then eyes me. "I'm very sorry," he says as a door slams and Stanley walks into the room.

XXXXX

August 28, 1967

2:29 pm

"I only spoke with Ponyboy for about a minute," Stan tells Soda and I. "He aced Ryan's test and I wanted help with it. Then I dropped my stuff next to his and left."

Stan smiles. "Pony, won the race that day."

"Yeah," Soda says softly. "We know."

Running a hand through his blonde hair, Stan grimaces. "I didn't noticed the difference with the jacket until a day ago. I was hot after track practice so I zipped it up in my backpack. It stayed there until I needed it. If I had known, I'd have gone to the police a lot sooner," he says earnestly.

"It's not your fault." I sigh, knowing we're at a dead end.

"I wish I had some more answers for you," Stan says. "But like my parents said…I have no idea." His face darkens. "Obviously whoever took him, isn't too bright."

"Good thing Ponyboy is," Soda says hollowly. I put a hand on his shoulder; he doesn't pull away.

Stan watches Soda for a minute and then turns to me. "Darry, I still have Pony's jacket if you want it."

"Yeah," I reply. "I do."

XXXXX

August 28, 1967

4:59 pm

"Screw your head on straight."

I cough upon waking up. "Oh hey, Dally." It's nice to have visitors when I'm stuck down here, but a bit disconcerting when they're supposed to be dead.

"I mean it kid. Look alive and wake up or you won't be getting out of here."

"Don't talk to me," I snap. "I have to think. _Damn it_, I'm _trying_ to think."

I just never thought it would be so hard.

XXXXX

August 28, 1967

6:00 pm

"My mom made lasagna." Two-Bit sets the large baking dish on the kitchen table. "That oughta feed you for a few days." He manages a small smile.

"Tell her thanks," I say, automatically grabbing three plates even though I am far from hungry.

Leaning against the counter Two-Bit asks, "How'd it go?"

"It was a headache," I admit. "I don't even know why we went over there. I should have listened to Jessup – they didn't have anything new to say."

I smile ruefully and touch the brown lump of fabric resting across the back of a kitchen chair. "Got his jacket back at least."

I don't tell Two-Bit that earlier this afternoon I had buried my nose in the jacket and taken a deep breath. It still smelled like my brother.

Two-Bit winces and clears his throat. "So…there's basically nothing new."

"Basically."

"This is bullshit. Someone has their thumbs up their ass." Two-Bit begins prowling the kitchen in agitation. "No." Two-Bit shakes his head. "It just can't be this cut and dry. He just can't be _gone_."

"They'll find him." I grab a spatula and begin to dish out healthy-sized portions of lasagna.

Two-Bit stops his pacing and looks at me, half-hopeful, half-sad. "You really believe that?"

"I do," I begin, choosing my words carefully. "If…if he was really gone…I'd know. Like with mom and dad. When the cops came that night…before I even opened that door, I knew. I felt it."

Two-Bit swallows thickly. "You hungry?" I ask him.

A half-smile graces his face. "Not really."

"Then grab a fork. And I'll go grab Soda."

XXXXX

August 28, 1967

6:13 pm

I find my brother in his room, idly flipping through a magazine. He looks up when I enter, his pink-rimmed eyes betraying everything.

The afternoon at the Ezra's had hurt him; I regretted ever mentioning anything about going over there. He had expected answers, something definite. And having gotten nothing, he only sank deeper.

"You want some dinner?"

"No."

I notice a few empty beer cans scattered on the floor and sigh. "Soda, you have to eat." I nudge one of the cans with my toe. "And this isn't the answer. I know it's hard-"

"Dar…what if he's out there hurt and alone?"

_Oh, please don't make me picture this_, I think, my heart heavy in my chest.

Soda's voice rises abruptly. "Waiting for us but no one's coming. He's going to think I just gave up and left him-"

Quickly, I sit down on the bed beside him. "He's not going to think that. You know Ponyboy. He has more faith in you than anyone."

He's quiet for a long while. I reach out to grip his shoulder and give it a quick shake. "Sodapop. You know that."

"I know," he finally chokes out. "That's what I'm afraid of."

XXXXX

Mistaken Identity in Case of Missing Boy by Rudy Gershwin

(Tulsa World)

August 29, 1967

The case of missing local boy, Ponyboy Curtis, 15, has turned up new evidence. Head Detective William Jessup believes that the initial target of the unknown kidnappers was Stanley Ezra, 16, son of local prosecutor Don Ezra.

Both track stars were wearing similar jackets on the day of the kidnapping. Ezra taking Curtis's and vice versa. It was not immediately clear what the significance the find will mean — if any — in the missing boy's case.

"I realize that the evidence is circumstantial at best," Jessup said speaking to reporters. "But we believe it's the lead we need in this case."

Don Ezra, a prominent figure at the Tulsa County Courthouse, has handled several high profile cases in recent years. The police department is looking at suspects who may have had a grudge against Don Ezra.

As the hunt for missing boy stretched into a sixth day, Detective Jessup stated that the police department is more determined than ever to find Ponyboy Curtis.

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Please read and review.

As a side note, let me know how the pacing of this story is going. I am debating whether you'd like to read beyond the kidnapping or if you want this wrapped up.

Thanks!

Also, this is my first stab at a 'mystery' so I hope this is not a laughable attempt.

Peace!


	9. Chapter 9

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You're obsessed with finding a new brain

But what you need is a new body

It feels your brain has lived a thousand lives before

And the skin you call your home

Holds a heart that quits and knees that buckle in

And lungs that can't breathe when they're alone

And the days come to you like sailors

You watch them as they drift away

They meet the sunrise out at the horizon

And it's neither sink nor swim

At least the water's beneath your chin.

--Rilo Kiley

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Hello everyone! Thanks for being patient with me – here is a long, long chapter for you all. Thanks for all the reviews – please leave more, they're always devoured lovingly.

Warning: Cursing, violence.

XXXXX

August 29, 1967

9:47 am

I watch my hands shake. And shake. And shake. I don't think they'll ever be the same again. I don't even want to think about _myself_.

Jerking my wrists and the ropes wildly, I watch as the water from the above pipe continues to drip on them. "C'mon. Please," I whisper in frustrated fear.

Whatever they gave me the day before is wearing off. I recall the conversation with Freckle and the flashes of Dallas Winston and cringe. In a way, I don't know which is worse.

_This way_, someone says.

_Which way?_ I think disjointedly.

I shut my eyes to ignore the jumbled thoughts. Images of my brothers swirl in and out of focus and I miss them desperately.

I can't stand it; I can't stand that Darry and Soda don't know where I am, I can't stand the way I feel – dirty, disgusting, ashamed – I can't stand that they took me away.

I didn't even have a choice.

And it is this thought, which continues to gnaw at me.

XXXXX

August 29, 1967

11:22 am

I can feel Steve watching me out of the corner of his eye when I drop the hubcaps. They utter a clanging noise, rolling around wildly on the garage floor.

"Shit," I swear, making no move to chase after them.

"You didn't have to come back to work, Soda," Steve begins, looking up from his inventory. "No one would blame you," he says in a softer tone.

"It's been a week Steve. I can't sit in that house any longer…waiting…" I shake my head. "I can't take it."

I don't know how Darry is keeping it together. Cooperating with the fuzz, cooking dinner even when no one wants to eat, obsessing over the facts of the case with a logical mind. Yet, despite my objections, I know that Darry keeping busy is how my brother copes.

Unfortunately, I have failed to find a coping mechanism. Yesterday, I stumbled upon one of Ponyboy's English notebooks while digging through the closet for a clean pair of jeans. Instead, I ended up pulling out his mess of writings and drawings.

Seeing that piece of my brother caused me to nearly loose it. I had to get out of that house and do something normal, like work.

_But_, I suddenly think staring at the mess of scattered hubcaps, _this isn't going to work either_. I was scrambled.

Steve sets the nuts and bolts he has been counting on the counter. "You'll hear something, Sodapop."

"Yeah, well I better hear something pretty goddamn soon because I'm getting sick and tired of no news," I snap in a low voice as a customer steps inside, the door chime jingling.

"No news can be good news," the customer states.

Steve's eyes narrow. "What's it to you?"

"A lot, actually," the man replies, taking off his hat and resting it on a stool next to him. "Rudy Gershwin."

Heat courses through my body as a knot forms in my throat. It's that damned reporter who has been writing the stories about Ponyboy. "What in the hell do you want?"

"A story."

"Fat chance," I snort and take a step toward Rudy to make a point. "You also want a black eye? Because _that's_ something I can definitely arrange."

Rudy smiles and pulls out a notepad. "So. You're the one with the mouth. Loved the quote, unfortunately couldn't run it." He readies his pen.

"Look," Rudy continues, cheesy smile still plastered on his face. "As you know this case is quite a, uh - what we in the biz call – a human interest story. Cute kid, dead parents, worried brothers; a real sympathetic piece."

"What I want to do is bring our readers _the-story-behind-the-story_. Give me an interview – from your side."

A loud, high-pitch noise is ringing in my ears. It should be a warning sign, but I disregard it and give in to my anger. "You goddamn vulture. You practically get off on this shit don't you?" I slam my fist on the countertop, scattering the nuts and bolts. "You're sick if you think I'm giving you anything."

"No need for name calling," Rudy lectures, raising an eyebrow. "Now, what about your brother's track record - sorry, bad pun – for getting into quite a bit of trouble?"

Before I can advance, Steve reaches out and grabs my elbow. "Soda. Leave it." He points at the reporter. "Don't you dare say another word."

Nodding, Rudy sticks the notepad in his back pocket and puts his hat on. "Ok, I get it. No more questions."

He shrugs as he reaches for the doorknob. "Call me when they find something." Then the door chimes and he is gone.

Stunned, I sag back against the counter feeling as if I've just been punched.

XXXXX

August 29, 1967

2:41 pm

They've stopped arguing.

Blonde and Freckle had been having a pretty animated conversation in the room next to me and somehow I got the idea that I was the cause. The sound was muffled by the walls but I could tell that Blonde was furious.

Then Freckle had hurried in, shot me up and left. Maybe it had been in my head, but Freckle had seemed near apologetic.

When I woke up, everything just felt wrong.

Now, there is silence and finally, I allow myself to panic. I need to find a way out of here or they're going to kill me. Tonight. And I hate them because I know they have doped me to keep me down.

_I don't want to die. Not this way._

My stomach rumbles, calling into the memory the last time I had eaten something. I force it away, trying to concentrate on a way out.

I eye my ropes and give them a half-hearted tug. Surprisingly, I am not met with resistance. The ropes give.

I blink, thinking my imagination is getting away with me. But when I try again, my wrists slip looser. My heart pounds in my throat and as I take a closer look I see that the ropes have swelled with the water from the dripping pipe, which has caused them to loosen.

A gasp escapes my mouth as I slip my hands fully out of the binds.

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August 29, 1967

3:15 pm

…_case has been called into question. Don Ezra, Prosecutor, states that the client, Barry Rekulak, convicted murderer, has not been judged unfairly and no immunity will be offered…_

…_Louis Patterson, a convicted kidnapper, has finally been put behind bars thanks to Don Ezra. Ezra's two-year-old case is finally put to rest and the families of the victims' their minds at ease…_

"Daddy?"

I flip the files over and toss them into a pile on the floor. I grab another.

…_H.S. Strunk calls Don Ezra a ruthless hero. "He'll go after the accused with more heart than…_

This file goes on the floor as well.

"Daddy?"

_Roger Chopinski is facing trial for robbery and attempted murder. Local prosecutor, Don Ezra states, "that despite everything, he will be going to jail." In a strange twist of fate, Hannah Chopinski looks on…_

"Daddy!"

Startled, I look up from my reading to see my daughter standing before me, doll in hand. "Sorry, honey, daddy's a bit busy right now." I push the files on Don Ezra away and pinch the bridge of my nose.

"You were reading," she giggles, clutching her doll closer. Then forgetting her doll, she drops it on the ground and sticks her thumb in her mouth.

"Mary," I sigh, trying not to smile. "Big girls don't do that."

"That's right," Connie says, appearing in the kitchen. "C'mon Mary, get your doll, let's let Daddy work."

Connie glances at me. "You have a phone call."

Standing up, I take my glasses off and rub the back of my neck. "I didn't hear it."

My wife laughs as she picks up Mary, jostling her against her hip. "You were in one of your trances again." She nods at the stacks of files and court cases. "Research."

As I make my way past her, she tugs at my sleeve. "Don't get too close, Will," Connie warns. "Not like last time."

I kiss her as she leaves. "Don't worry," I murmur as I pick the phone up in the hallway.

"This is Jessup."

"If you want him, you better come and get him," a coarse voice states over the static. "Now."

Something tells me this isn't a sales pitch and I grip the phone. "Who are you talking about?" I ask even though I think I already know. All thoughts of court cases and Don Ezra fade from my mind.

"The boy. He ain't gonna last much longer. 313 Whitebridge Road."

XXXXX

August 29, 1967

3:49 pm

"Look for a weapon," Johnny commands.

It feels odd to have the use of my hands once again as I scour the room for something to use when Freckle and Blonde come back. The back door is locked as well as the front. I have to wait.

"You're not really here," I mutter, grabbing up the lamp but then deciding against it. They'll be no light if I break it and I really don't think I can take sitting in the dark for very much longer.

"Does it matter?" Johnny asks, his dark eyes glittering.

"No, I guess not," I say, considering this.

"The plate." Johnny nods at the plate on which a stale sandwich rests.

"Johnny…" I begin slowly. "You want me to defend myself with a baloney sandwich?"

"Not the sandwich, Pone. The plate. It's glass. Break it."

Dizziness overcomes me as I make my way over to the other side of the room, but I blink past the white lights and grab up that plate. "Not too hard," Johnny cautions, and it comes down in a gentle fury as I smash it against the wall.

I shut my eyes as it scatters and when I open them Johnny is gone.

XXXXX

August 29, 1967

4:25 pm

Whitebridge Road is in the middle of the woods. Dark, dank and muddy woods. We've had to park nearly a mile away from the road because our cruisers couldn't make it up the muddy path. I don't see a house in sight and silently pray that this wasn't a prank. Thank God that I had held off on telling Ponyboy's brothers anything about this.

Out of the blue, Benji Miller yells, "Over there!" He points across the stream that dissects the woods and we take off on foot, back up following.

XXXXX

August 29, 1967

4:28 pm

The doorknob turns and suddenly I don't feel too brave. "He's a soc," I tell myself. "Just a soc." I crouch behind the bed, out of view to anyone who enters the room.

"Kid, kid," Freckle babbles as he whips the door open. "Oh, what a little asshole…" he moans, seeing the empty ropes.

Courage flares in me and I launch myself on Freckle's back just like I did in the rumble a lifetime ago.

Freckle lets out a curse, spinning around. The shard of glass I hold falls to the floor, my weapon long gone.

I hang on until Freckle's head comes back cracking me across the face. I scream as my grip fails and I hit the ground with a _thud_. My face aches.

I lay there stunned, every piece of my body calling out for relief. The ceiling whirls above me and I slur, "Leave m'lone," as I feel Freckle above me.

Freckle curses. "You goddamn stupid kid. You were gonna cut me, weren't you?" He asks, nudging the jagged piece of plate away from me. "Look, I wasn't gonna hurt you. I'm fucking trying to get you-"

_BAM!_

A gun discharges, the bullet hitting Freckle through the chest. As Freckle's lifeless body begins to fall towards me, my eyes widen in horror and I roll out of the way. He hits the ground beside me. I bury my head in my arms and wait.

Blonde speaks. "That's why you never have a partner, kid. They go soft in the end."

XXXXX

August 29, 1967

4:32 pm

Benji and I draw our weapons as we approach. We're about a half a mile away when the gunshot echoes throughout the woods. "Sonofabitch!" I shout, running towards the cabin.

XXXXX

August 29, 1967

4:45 pm

I try to kick Blonde off me but fail. His hands are wrapped around my throat, his arms shaking with their intensity. Looming over me, his calm eyes stare into mine.

My feet hit the ground, sneakers slapping weakly as I struggle for control. Darkness dances before me as the air I so desperately need is being choked off.

_I wasn't fast enough, _I think_. Johnny was fast enough with that blade, but I wasn't. I just wasn't…_

My eyes widen as I feel myself go limp and then the pressure relaxes. "Shit!" Blonde hisses. Above us, I hear the front door being kicked in. Shouts sound off down the hallway, footsteps pounding the stairs.

Blonde jumps up, a blur above me as he takes off, a door slamming somewhere.

XXXXX

August 29, 1967

4:47 pm

The kid's lying on the floor, curled up into a ball and for a minute I think it's too late. We didn't make it. "Benji," I tell my partner, "call for an ambulance."

I order the rest of the men to stand down as I take the stairs two at a time, ignoring the other body lying in the corner of the room.

Reaching the boy, I kneel down and gently touch his shoulder. His eyes are shut, pallor gray. "Ponyboy," I say quietly.

Then, the kid jerks abruptly as if he's been shocked. He sucks in harsh breath after breath as he rushes to push himself back up.

The boy's dazed eyes focus on me and they widen in fear. "Whoa, whoa," I soothe, as he scoots away, his hands clutching at his throat, where the uneven breaths are still being taken.

"Ponyboy, Pony," I say. "It's ok."

His green eyes widen. "Oh my god, you're here," the kid croaks before bursting into tears.

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Review please!

Thank you! Thank you!

Pardon any typos.


	10. Chapter 10

Last chapter in this story! Please review!

I will write a sequel. This just felt it must end here.

Thanks so much for reading!!!

XXXXX

And he looks at me in wonder

And he looks at me in fear

Wrestling with his anger

His pride and stony tears

To place me in his life

Will be hard and slow

Does he want it need it

I might never know

The boy feels strange

Oh the boy has changed

--Melissa Etheridge

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August 29, 1967

5:27 pm

I try to veto the idea of taking Ponyboy to the hospital, earning the wrath of at least four people on the case.

It's unorthodox, but I have my reasons. It's important for me to get the boy near his family as soon as I can. Ponyboy has endured god knows what and slapping him in the care of foreign doctors and nurses would not help things.

_Unfortunately, I don't think I'm going to get my way tonight,_ I muse as the paramedic checking over Ponyboy Curtis shoots me a nasty glare.

Benji exists the cabin and sidles up to me. "All's secured, Sir. Body bagged."

"Good," I nod and then look at the haunted face of the boy. "Don't bring it out until we're gone, you hear?"

"Yes, sir." Benji gives me a sympathetic look. "He say anything?"

"Nothing much."

The kid has stopped crying less than 20 minutes ago, and now sits clutching himself on the back of the ambulance. The paramedic, Lisa Paillard, speaks quietly to him. I watch as her face clouds and she looks up to meet my eyes.

Lisa mouths, "I'll be right back" to Ponyboy and walks over.

"Oh boy," I tell Benji, unwrapping a stick of gum.

"How's he doing?" I ask as Lisa reaches us.

"He needs a hospital," she snaps.

"Later," I say.

"Now." Lisa folds her arms across her chest and waits.

Already weary of her antics, I ask harshly, "C'mon Lisa. How's the kid?"

"Bruising on the throat, damaged vocal cords. He'll be hoarse for quite a while. Malnourished, dehydrated," Lisa rattles. "Obvious symptoms."

Lisa glances back at Pony and when she turns back to me, her dark brows are furrowed. "But the most worrying are the track marks."

"Track marks?" Benji starts.

"Yes. I don't know what those bastards shot him up with but his arm looks like a dartboard. And that detective Jessup is why he needs a hospital. I'm not arguing with you on this. I win."

Without another word, her nostrils flare and Lisa turns on her heel, walking briskly away from me, tension thick in the air.

Benji whistles. "Old girlfriend?"

"Worse. Sister-in-law." I pop the gum in my mouth. "Benji, call Darry Curtis willya?"

XXXXX

August 29, 1967

5:41 pm

I shut my desk drawer and for the third time today stack the paperwork neatly into a pile. I'm the last one to leave but I just can't force myself to go. The house is too empty, Soda too quiet, the future unwelcoming.

The phone rings and I stare at it. I consider not answering but then worry that it's Sodapop and pick it up.

"Fieldman Construction. Darrel Curtis."

"Darry – it's Officer Benji Miller. We found your brother."

Caught off guard, I forget how to breathe. "God help me," I whisper. My free hand comes up to cover my eyes. "I - Is he…?"

"Alive," the officer sounds excited, eager to tell me. "He's alive and we've got him."

I drop the phone as my surroundings fade. It slides from my hand, knocking the linoleum with a dull thud. My breath struggles for control, my vision blurry. I suddenly realize I had expected something so much worse with this phone call.

After our parents and Johnny and Dallas, I hadn't expected any favors. But for once, Soda and I are lucky. _He's alive._

Shock works its way out of my system and as sound rushes upon me I grab the phone.

" –hospital?" Benji is asking. "Darrell, did you hear me? Hello?"

"I did," I say quickly. "What hospital? I'll meet you there?" I want to ask _How Bad?_ but I don't because at the moment it doesn't matter. Not yet.

Benji thinks. "Well, we're closest to St. Francis but you're closest to—"

"Benji," I interrupt. "I don't give a good goddamn how far that hospital is. You just get him there."

"Right," he replies business-like. "St. Fran's." And Benji hangs up.

When I hear the dial tone again, when my heart resumes beating, I reach over and call Sodapop.

XXXXX

August 29, 1967

5:55 pm

There are all these people looking at me. Poking and prodding and every thing's so bright I just want to curl up in a ball like before.

"Honey? Do you want some water?" The paramedic asks, holding out a cup with a straw.

I shake my head mutely.

The detective who is riding with us asks in a low voice, "Can't you just give him some fluids?" He eyes me with concern.

Lisa sneers at him but speaks softly. "I think it's best we wait for any type of _intravenous_ medication." She sets the cup down, a few drops of water spilling out as the ambulance takes a turn.

Even though I am half-doped the meaning's clear and I wince. I hug myself, shrouding my arms, thankful that I have changed out of my clothes and into the long-sleeved shirt of one of the firefighters.

Jessup is staring at me as if he can't believe it. "I'm sure glad we found you."

I open my mouth to agree with him but am silenced by Lisa. "Shh. Don't speak. You shouldn't until your throat heals."

Jessup exhales a long breath and smiles awkwardly, his teeth perfectly white and straight. "I know a few other people who'll be even happier than I am."

The thought of seeing Darry and Soda overwhelms me. Lisa must see this because she reaches out and touches my hand. "Don't worry."

I just look at her._ Easy for you to say_, I think before closing my eyes.

XXXXX

August 29, 1967

6:49 pm

After making my way through the mess of cops and reporters, I finally reach the sixth floor of St. Fran's, chest tight from running up the stairs. A few cops are hanging out in the hallway but I pass them by, searching for my brother.

Finally, I see him. He's sitting in the waiting room, puffing his way through a pack of smokes. I sigh and rub my brow, catching my breath. I cross the room.

"How many speeding tickets you get?" I ask, stopping in front of Soda. Despite being even further away from the hospital than me, he's beaten me there.

He doesn't look up. "One," he mutters, staring at his hands. "How'd you know?"

I don't answer, instead choosing to sit down beside him. "Where're the guys?"

"I didn't call them," Soda says, rubbing his hair. "Too much, you know?" This time he looks at me, cocking his head.

"Yeah," I agree, sinking back into the chair. Soda bows his head once again.

I watch the nurses scurry back and forth. I think it's about time I start screaming for a doctor but can't rally the energy.

"Have you spoken with anyone yet?"

"No. Jessup went to get coffee. The nurse says they'll be back in five." Frustration blackens Soda's features, "Goddamn cops always—"

I cut Soda off as I rise, seeing Jessup approach me. "What's the news?" I ask shaking his hand.

Jessup smiles grimly. "I'll let the doc give you all the medical BS. But on our end, he's alive and he's safe now."

It shouldn't matter – but it does. It eats at me; what I imagine can't be worse than what Jessup has to say. At least I hope so. "Where'd you find him?" I ask, my throat gravel.

"Out on Route Five. Whitebridge Road – some random cabin out in the middle of nowhere." Jessup shifts the coffee cup in his hand. Soda stays seated, placing his palms into his eyes.

"The suspect was found dead," Jessup continues. "I hope you realize that we'll have to question Ponyboy soon."

"Sure," I reply numbly, not liking what I hear but understanding it nonetheless.

"Drink this. You'll need it." Jessup hands me the coffee. "I'm sorry to do it this way. But Ponyboy hasn't said much and I need the facts as fresh as they can be."

"I just need a doctor," I tell Jessup. "I need my brother and then you can do what you want."

XXXXX

August 29, 1967

7:02 pm

The doctor tells Soda and I that Ponyboy is severely malnourished and dehydrated. The most worrying though, he says, are the bruised vocal chords and the track marks on his arms.

"Track marks?" Soda repeats for the second time. He hugs his arms to his chest and keeps shaking his head, trying to defy the words.

Jessup hangs back in the corner, chewing his gum and talking to Benji quietly.

"Yes," the doctor replies. "Unfortunately, it appears your brother was shot up with Diazepam to keep him sedated during the ordeal. Now this will require that he go through withdrawal since his tolerance has probably been built up over—"

"God damn," I whisper, tuning the doctor out. My teeth scrape together in rage as I think: W_hoever did this is going to rot in hell._

Then the doctor is telling us that we can see Ponyboy now, as Soda pushes me forward. He gives me a panicked look as I touch the doorknob and step inside.

XXXXX

August 29, 1967

7:09 pm

Darrel cracks the door to room 603 and enters quietly, Soda behind him.

Benji stops speaking to me as I turn away from him. "Jessup…" he trails off.

From my position near the door I see Ponyboy lying in the bed, dwarfed by his surroundings, seeming so vulnerable. The boy winces at the noise and then wide-eyed stares at his brothers. He blinks at them as if they are strangers.

"Pony…" Soda takes a step forward and then halts as Ponyboy shrinks away.

Then, before the boy says it, I see it.

"Oh no," Ponyboy whispers, long arms coming up to shield his face. The long-sleeved t-shirt envelops him, but I know what he is thinking: he's thankful it doesn't show how skinny he is or those awful marks on his arms.

I should have expected this. I try to avert my eyes, will the Nurse to shut the door but she doesn't and I keep watching the scene before me.

"It's okay Pone," Darry says, moving closer. "It's okay. We're here."

"No it isn't," the boy struggles not to cry. "It's not. Everything's wrong."

Sodapop's face matches the white wall as he shoots Darry an ill expression. Darry does his best to keep a blank face as he watches his youngest brother struggle. He takes another step forward.

"Can you just go away?" Ponyboy is saying. "Please Darry."

"Ponyboy," Darrel says, approaching his brother. He takes his hand. "I'm not going anywhere. You're safe. And you're home." The kid scrunches his face up, trying to pull his hand away.

Then, Darry is telling the boy that he loves him and the kid breaks down in his brother's arms.

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Reviews please??

And yes, this is the last chapter in the story. But I will write a continuation where this leaves off. I just felt it should end here.

Thanks so much for reading – review please! : )


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